The One You Want
by Yndilwen
Summary: "I'm just not the one you want!" When Steve joined college to study art, his plan had been to somehow survive better than he did in high school, get his degree and leave the studying life behind him without any drama. The universe, however, had other plans for Steve Rogers when it introduced a certain athlete into his life. So what happened to not attracting unnecessary attention?
1. Chapter 1

Helloooo! I'm BACK!  
So here's a new/old story. I'm revamping _The One You Want _and starting the posting all over! I'll be posting a new chapter every Sunday! Today I might actually manage to post two chapters to start off with because Chapter 1 is so short.  
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think; it means more to me than you know!  
But most importantly: enjoy!

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**Chapter 1**

Regret was definitely the most prominent emotion that Steve was experiencing. He'd come this far though, and he'd never forgive himself if he let his best friend, Clint Barton, down.

Clint was so excited that he was practically bouncing on his heels, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Nervously, Steve watched the steady stream of college students entering the building. It wouldn't be fair to call the building a house because the two-story home looked more like a mansion. The ivory façade was lit up by floodlights whilst smaller garden lights lit the path to the large front door. A beautiful garden surrounded the home with a lush lawn and healthy-looking shrubs and flowers dotting the landscape like well-placed accents in a painting.  
Whoever owned the home must be quite wealthy, Steve surmised.

"Please tell me you have a plan." He mumbled, tearing his azure eyes away from the students to look at his best friend instead.

"Sure I do!" Clint insisted, nonchalance personified.

"Mind sharing it with me then?"

"All we gotta do is go in there," He gestured to the house, "find Natasha so I can introduce myself and the rest will happen by default."

"You mean the part where she falls in love with you?" Steve retorted dryly. He had the funny feeling that the evening would end with them getting beaten up and stuffed into the nearest dumpster.

"C'mon Steve! No-one can resist this charm!" The face Clint pulled, Steve assumed, was probably supposed to look charming and handsome. It didn't…

"I can resist that face." Steve deadpanned.

"Well now you're just being hurtful." Clint whined, leaning his head on Steve's shoulder dramatically, pretending to cry into Steve's red knit sweater.

Clint's silly antics were enough to loosen the tight knot in Steve's stomach and he caught himself laughing airily. "Fine." He relented with a dramatic eye-roll that Clint only saw once he'd straightened up again, "What's she look like?"

"She's got this amazing red hair, kinda wavy. Her eyes are green; but not the grass green kind, more like a leafy green and she really likes wearing reds and blacks. She's usually got a leather jacket on; she's cool like that."

"Have you been stalking her?" Steve asked, suppressing a laugh when Clint gave him a half-hearted glare.

"Listen. She's damn gorgeous okay? She's the kind of girl that you'd wanna date. The kind you'd sort of want to introduce to your parents but at the same time you'd be worried about what your parents would think of her."  
"Gorgeous I can work with but dateable?"

"Right." Clint shot Steve an apologetic look, seeming to have genuinely forgotten that Steve was gay. Steve might not have come out publicly yet, too afraid of the repercussions it would have, but his close friends knew of his gender preference.

"It's no big deal." Steve waved it off immediately, clapping Clint on the back until her didn't look quite so sheepish anymore. "So, uh… what do you think it's gonna be like?" Steve went on awkwardly, "Do you think they're having a movie evening or something like that?"

Clint barked a laugh, draping an arm across Steve's shoulders. "I highly doubt it Steve."

Steve couldn't quite decide which was worse: the pungent mixture of smells or the blaring music. His head was already spinning five minutes in and his eyes darted to locate the nearest exits for just in case. The flashy entrance hall had been mostly empty, but the living area was a completely different story. The plush cream carpet was covered in dancing, sweating, intoxicated students. Absent-mindedly, Steve wondered how much it would cost to clean the carpet after the party. Steve noted that there were no decorations in the living room, as if someone had removed them prior to the party as a precaution. Judging by the way the drunk students were stumbling about, it had probably been a good call.

Steve followed Clint dutifully, making his already small body as unobtrusive as possible while he weaved his way through the moving crowd.

It was painfully obvious that neither Steve nor Clint belonged at the party- they looked different, moved differently and as a result, stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs. Steve felt awkward, especially when he noticed a few students give them strange looks in passing. Luckily, Steve was ridiculously stubborn and as such, all he did was jut out his chin and continue on, determined to help Clint as best as he could, regardless of how out-of-place he felt.

The two of them found an empty corner, closest to the glass sliding doors leading out to the terrace. It was a good vantage point from which to search for the object of Clint's affection.

Steve tried to ignore the way the loud bass buzzed in his stomach. He tried to ignore the fact that the bright, flashing lights were giving him a headache and the fact that he was starting to feel claustrophobic. This was for Clint. He was doing this for Clint.

Steve's eyes panned from one shade of red to the other until he spotted a red-haired girl sitting on one of the couches. The seating arrangement stood on the far side of the room in front of a large flat screen mounted on the wall. The beforementioned girl was snugly seated between two burly-looking football players, leaning into each in turn while she spoke. Both men were completely enraptured by what she was saying, laughing and smiling enthusiastically.

Clint hadn't been wrong about Natasha- she was incredibly beautiful, graced with delicate features and a confident smile. One of her hands was resting on the muscly shoulder of the dark-skinned football player sitting to her right. In Steve's opinion, the guy was probably ten times his size; the type of guy who could probably fold him in half and stuff him into a locker if he wanted to.

Steve pushed aside his worry, clearing is throat and nudging Clint, "That your girl?"

Frowning, Clint flowed Steve's line of sight. As soon as his bright eyes found Natasha, his face lit up like a Christmas tree on Christmas morning and a goofy grin spread across his face. "Sure is." He confirmed, patting Steve on the back as if to say thank you.

"So, uh…" Steve hesitated, "what're you gonna do now?"

Clint gave Steve a very blank look. "Introduce myself?"

"And what if one of those guys is her boyfriend?" Steve pointed out, slightly annoyed by Clint's naivety. Ever since Clint had first mentioned that his new-found crush was one of the _cheerleaders, _Steve had struggled with himself not to burst Clint's rose-red-coloured bubble. Clint falling for one of the cheerleaders was the same as if Steve were to fall in love with one of the football players- it was a fauxpas. Natasha was just so very far out of poor Clint's league.

"Saying hello don't hurt, does it?" Clint insisted stubbornly, pursing his lips, "I mean, who'd hit someone for saying hello?"

Steve groaned exasperatedly. He was already wondering which of the two football players was gonna be the one to break his nose.

"Man… I gotta try Steve… I just gotta!" Clint's pleading tone of voice drew Steve's eyes back to him. Clint looked frustrated, angry even, upset by the unjust system that determined who got to like whom and what happened within college social circles.

Steve envied Clint. Clint, despite his hearing impairment was still a prime example of an extrovert. He didn't let society dictate who he was or how he acted, and Steve wished he could be that brave. Steve was good at standing up for people, would give an arm and a leg if it meant helping someone. Helping himself though? He wasn't quite sure how to do that…

Steve worked his jaw, eyes panning between Clint and Natasha for a moment while he forced whichever doubts he had as far into the back of his mind as possible. "You know what?" He finally decided, "She'd be lucky to have a guy like you. Go get her Clint!"

"You can bet your ass I will." Clint promised, drawing Steve into a quick, tight hug, "Thanks for this Steve. It means a lot."

"Please." Steve waved it off easily, slapping Clint on the back for good measure, "What are friends for?"

"I promise you, once you find yourself a good guy, I'm gonna be the best wingman you could ever ask for!"

Before Steve could answer, or more, protest, Clint had let him go and was already making his way through the crowd with a confident spring in his step.

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It didn't take long for Steve to lose sight of Clint in the crowd and after a few minutes of fruitless searching, Steve gave up, heaving a sigh. He really hoped that Clint wasn't going to get himself hurt.

Steve's gaze travelled to the balcony with its illuminated pool. A couple of students had fallen into the pool and were laughing, splashing each other with the water. The scene looked like it could just as well have come straight out of one of those party-centric movies that Clint sometimes forced Steve to watch- for science.

All of a sudden, things felt different without Clint next to him- worse. He felt alone and vulnerable, helpless even, and the large room seemed suddenly too small, the noise smothering, weighing down on him like a ton of bricks. Breathing in heavily, Steve's eyes found the nearest exit that didn't lead him directly into the next group of students- the front door. He knew where it was. All he had to do was go to his left, head through the corridor and into the entrance hall and then he'd be out. He wasn't planning on leaving Clint, he just wanted to get some fresh air before his asthma decided it wanted to make an appearance and humiliate him in front of the who's who of their college. If all else failed, he'd text Clint, let him know that things got a bit too much for him.

On wobbly legs, the short blond began to make his way towards the exit, his eyes fixed on his destination. For once, his small size deemed to be an advantage, making it easy for him to weave in and out between sweating, dancing bodies without disturbing anyone.

This worked well for the most part until… until it didn't anymore.

Steve slammed into the other man with so much force, that he had to focus on his breathing for a moment to figure out how to fill his lungs with air again. In the meantime, the smell of alcohol registered with Steve, followed by the unmistakable feeling of a cool liquid soaking through not only his sweater but also the white shirt he had on underneath.

Steve cursed under his breath. This had to be some sort of cruel joke… Steve felt the blood rush to his cheeks, triggered by the wave of embarrassment that flooded him like a hot fever. Flustered, he clenched his jaw, trying to formulate the kind of apology that wouldn't get him in trouble but someone else beat him to it.

"Shit! I'm so sorry!"

Startled, Steve's head snapped up and his eyes found the student's face immediately. He was tall and leanly muscular with short brown hair and shocking steel-blue eyes. It took a moment for the shocked look on his face to register with Steve, mainly because Steve's mind was reeling due to how attractive the guy in front of him was.

Dumbly, Steve's mouth opened and closed a few times while he tried to think of anything, _something _to say.

Regret was definitely the most prominent emotion that Steve was experiencing.

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There it is! Hope you enjoyed! :)


	2. Chapter 2

And here you have chapter 2!  
Again, feel free to let me know what you think! Also, if you have any prompts for fanfictions that you would like me to do (one-shots or otherwise), feel free to inbox me!  
See you next week!  
And please, do enjoy! :)

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**Chapter 2**

"Shit! I'm so sorry!"

Steve swallowed, trying to convey something similar to indifference, extremely aware that they were surrounded by people and that, judging by the way this guy was dressed, whoever he was, he most definitely had to be one of the popular students and was probably also very, very straight.

"I swear, you're so small that I didn't see ya there, kid."

And just like that, the spell the stranger had on Steve was broken and Steve's mind reconnected with his body, ordering his mouth to bend into an indignant frown.

"I'm not a kid." Steve shot back, jutting out his chin and puffing out his chest to make himself look at least a little bigger.

"Right." The other man smirked bemusedly, "And I'm the president of the United Sta-."

"Screw you!" Steve retorted sharply, "How about next time you walk around like an idiot, you watch out where you're going?!" Steve's cheeks were achingly hot, and he only just managed another contemptuous glare before whirling around angrily, dead set on leaving this mortifyingly embarrassing situation before it could get any worse- before anyone could _notice_.

"Shit. No. M'sorry! Hey! Wait!" A warm, strong hand wrapped itself around Steve's bony wrist, stopping Steve in his tracks without much effort.

Gritting his teeth, Steve turned around to glare at him again. Maybe this was going to get him punched but there was no way in hell that Steve was going to go down without a fight if this guy was going to insist on a confrontation. Still, somewhere in the back of Steve's racing mind, he was still aware of where he was: surrounded by a bunch of people that were more likely to be on this guy's side than on his.

Contrary to anything Steve might have expected though, once he had turned to face the other man, the taller student looked nothing but sincerely apologetic, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand whilst offering Steve an awkward, slightly crooked smile. "Listen… M'sorry. Really, I am. I didn't wanna insult ya."

It was difficult to tell with the guy's alcohol-induced slur, but Steve suspected that the brunette might have a Brooklyn drawl- a strong one. The lavish house they were currently in was situated in Hempstead but maybe this guy had spent the majority of his life in Brooklyn.

Wordlessly and still slightly vexed, Steve tugged his wrist out of the other's large hand. He was relieved when the latter didn't try to keep a hold of him, letting his own hand fall back to his side.

"Let me make it up to you." The student begged. His handsome features looked so beseeching that Steve felt his shoulders slump in resignation, his anger melting away like snow in spring.

"What're you… what're you gonna do?" Steve stuttered out warily, shooting a quick glance at the students around them to make sure that no-one had caught on to what was going on.

"You wanted t'leave. I got some shirts upstairs. How 'bout I give you one… so you can get home dry at least?"

Steve looked down at his clothes, cringing when he saw the dark beer stain on the front of his red sweater. With every move he made, he could feel the way his shirt stuck to his bony torso. It was uncomfortable and if he was being honest with himself, he was dying to get out of his soiled clothes. With an exaggerated sigh, he gave in, muttering, "Yeah okay, fine."

The other student grinned at him as though Steve had just hung the stars in the sky for him and it made Steve's stomach jump. His frazzled mind stuttered with thoughts that he didn't recognize but before he could start analysing what was happening, the other student spoke up, loud and joyful. "Gotta go upstairs. C'mon!" Without a moment's hesitation, he wrapped his strong hand around Steve's wrist again, tugging Steve along with him as the two made their way through the crowd, towards the stairwell in the entrance hall.

The parts of the house that Steve managed to catch a glimpse of were just as fancy as the living area had been. The stairs were covered by the same plush carpet as the living room had been, as was the corridor upstairs, making their footsteps soundless. Said corridor was decorated with a number of different, framed paintings, each one more beautiful than the next. A number of white doors led off from the long passageway; but each door was closed, hiding the rooms that waited beyond the white, laminated wood.

Steve followed the stranger silently, nervously, watching the way his shoulders swayed while he walked. He was wearing a snuggly cut grey Henley that hugged his body, showing off each of his muscles as they moved to the rhythm his steps dictated. He had a walk that exuded confidence, even with his slight lack of coordination caused by the alcohol he had been consuming over the course of the party.

The music was but a low buzz in the background now and Steve's head thanked him for it. He felt his body begin to relax and he let out a silent sigh as his muscles began to unwind.

"Here it is." Steve was brought to an abrupt halt in front of the last door to the left.

He watched the stranger make quick work of the door, reaching in and turning on the light with the kind of surety that told Steve that he knew the place by heart. This was his home, his party.

All at once, the content state his body had settled into, flipped into one of near to unbearable nervousness. He became jittery and paranoid, looking over his shoulder to make sure that no-one had followed them. The realisation settled in that Steve had insulted and snapped at one of the football players, one of the popular kids; someone that, if he wanted to, could ruin Steve's life at college in a matter of seconds. The sportsmen at their college were at the top of the social hierarchy, loved and sought after by pretty much everyone. And Steve? He was at the very, _very_ bottom of said pyramid.

Steve was yanked back to reality when the football player gave his wrist a gentle tug, prompting him to move forward.

Uncertainly, Steve looked up at the handsome stranger, surprised to find him smiling. He had a crooked smile, the right side of his mouth tilting up a little more than the left. It was endearing and almost attractive enough to distract Steve from the predicament he was caught up in.

"You coming?" The taller student asked quietly.

Steve nodded vehemently, becoming pliant under the other's lead.

The room Steve walked into was modest compared to the rest of the house. The only thing that looked expensive, was the king-sized bed standing against the far wall, opposite to the door. The frame looked to be made of an expensive wood with a slightly shiny finish. The duvet covering the bed looked like ivory silk, the kind of material you'd want to run your hand over.

The wall against which the bed stood was decorated with a multitude of framed photos and certificates. A desk stood in the corner, next to a large bookshelf filled to the brim with all sorts of books. Steve was surprised to find that a guy like this read actual books and he was almost overwhelmed by the urge to go and inspect the bookshelf.

Steve could almost _feel _the stranger's eyes on him, so he averted his eyes from the room to glare at the man instead. "What?" Steve muttered defensively.

"I just ain't sure if any of my shirts are gonna fit ya. You're so _tiny_."

Steve bristled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Are we really doing this? You're really gonna go there?"

"I'm sorry kid, it's just-."

"I'm twenty-one!" Steve interrupted him angrily, clenching his fists. He wanted to punch this guy _so badly_, but he knew where that would land him; and so instead, he swallowed the pill, regardless of how much his small body was shaking with equal measures of anger and embarrassment.

"No shit." The other man looked genuinely surprised, eyeing Steve curiously, "Why're you so small then?"

"Are you just this obnoxious because you're drunk? Or is this just generally the kind of jerk that you are?"

Suddenly, the other college student looked a lot more sober than he had a moment ago and he groaned, throwing his head back. "I'm so sorry. My Ma always tells me I got a big mouth. Lemme just get that shirt for ya, give me a second." With a remorseful look, he disappeared into a walk-in cupboard that Steve hadn't noticed before.

Steve heaved a heavy sigh of relief once he was finally alone. It would probably only take the guy a moment to find a shirt, but Steve was glad for the short moment of privacy, hoping to use it to work on his dwindling composure.

He felt awkward, like an elephant stuck in a porcelain store, uncertain of what to do and how to behave. He might not be enjoying the situation he was in or the company that he was being forced to keep, but that didn't mean he was going to cause a scene where none was strictly necessary. He was going to get that shirt, say goodbye, find Clint and leave- that was it.

A minute or two later, when the football player still hadn't re-emerged from the cupboard, Steve gave in to his curiosity, leaving the doorway and padding over to the bookshelf by the desk. It was filled with sci-fi novels and science textbooks. If he looked carefully, he could see colourful sticky-notes pocking out between the pages of several textbooks. His findings confused Steve. He hadn't expected anything along the lines of science or sci-fi; fantasy maybe but that was about it.

Agitated, he turned his back on the bookshelf, crossing his arms across his chest. That's when he spotted the certificates hanging above the bed. Steve was convinced that they'd be of athletic nature and thus, was even more surprised to find that all of them were of an academic nature. They were made out to _James B. Barnes. _Some were for excellent grades in science, others for physics and maths.

Steve frowned. He had expected a room belonging to a football player to be filled with sport trophies and medals, not academic awards and a NASA poster hanging above the desk.

Steve's miniature revelation was abruptly brought to an end when James came stumbling out of the cupboard without anything akin to grace. He was carrying a blue t-shirt that looked like it could fit Steve twice.

Noticing the way Steve was eying the t-shirt warily, James said, "It's the smallest I could find. I think I wore this back when I was sixteen."

Doing his best to conjure up the darkest glare he could, Steve marched over to James and snatched the shirt away from him, cheeks burning something fierce. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so humiliated.

"Turn around." Steve muttered.

James cocked his head, arching an eyebrow at Steve quizzically.

"Just-!" Steve broke off, closing his eyes as tightly as he could, "Just turn around for God's sake James!"

Steve waited. He counted down to ten in his head nervously, trying to ignore the fierce fire burning behind his cheeks. Once he reached zero, he opened his eyes hesitantly, expecting a judgemental frown from James. Instead, he found that James had done as Steve had asked him to, facing away from him.

Wordlessly, Steve peeled off his red sweater, dropping it onto the wooden floorboards before getting to work on his stained white shirt. He cringed when the shirt stuck to his skin as he pulled it off and over his head. Because it was dark outside, Steve could see his reflection in James' room window. Staring back at him with a notable frown, was a short blond man whose torso looked to be nothing more than skin and bones. His skin was a sickly sort of pale, the kind of colour that dead people had in the movies. The sight made his arms move faster to dry off his torso with his shirt and pull over the fresh one. It had an eagle printed on the front in black and white. The shirt hung from his shoulders loosely, looking more like a poncho on Steve than an actual T-shirt.

Steve sighed. "I'm done. You can… you can turn around again."

James followed Steve's prompt, turning around to face Steve on wobbly legs.

Steve didn't understand why he felt so self-conscious standing in front of James like that. He told himself that he didn't care what James thought of him.

A movement caught Steve's eye and involuntarily, he found himself looking at James' mouth that was breaking into a wide smile, revealing incredibly white, straight teeth. James really did have a handsome smile… When Steve realized what he was doing, he forced his eyes up to James', which in the end didn't make things any better for him because James' eyes were unlike anything that Steve had ever seen: they were a mix of an opal and an aquamarine, shimmering just as brilliantly as both stones would.

Steve swallowed heavily, averting his eyes out of pure helplessness. From the periphery of his vision, Steve could see James run a hand through his short, messy hair. He didn't dare look back at James, knowing that he was probably still smirking. That, or he was getting ready to punch Steve in the face for staring at him like some star struck teenager.

"Something wrong with the shirt?"

Steve's eyes snapped up to James' when he picked up on the concern weighing down each word James had spoken. "No! I mean… it's great. Thanks James."

"Bucky." James corrected him quietly, "My name _is_ James, but my friends just call me Bucky."

"Right. Bucky. Okay, I'm sorry." Steve winced.

"For what it's worth, I think the shirt looks good on ya." Bucky commented.

Steve couldn't help the self-deprecating laugh that burst from his chest at that.

"You honestly think I'm lying to ya?" Bucky asked him with a frown. He sounded offended and far too sober all of a sudden. His slur was almost completely gone, and his Brooklyn accent became clear as day.

"I know how this goes." Steve muttered, resisting the urge to avert his eyes.

"What?"

"Oh come on!" Steve replied morosely, a half-hearted, bitter-sweet smile playing on his lips as he went on, "You're the popular, good-looking football player and I'm the nerd that no-one cares about. If you wanna make fun of me, just do it and get it over with so I can get home."

Bucky's eyes widened. "What? No! You got me all wrong!" He took a step closer to Steve but stopped when Steve mirrored the movement, increasing the distance between the two of them again. Bucky clenched his jaw. "Shit man, why would I wanna make fun of ya?"

"Because of the way I look?" Steve pointed out, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. Every word Bucky was saying sounded sincere and yet experience told Steve that there was no way he could be telling the truth. People like Bucky weren't nice to people like Steve.

"Because of the way you-." Bucky broke off, clearly frustrated, "Have you seen yourself?"

"Too many times not to know how off-putting I look." Steve retorted dryly.

Bucky pulled a face, looking at Steve like he was crazy. "You're beautiful!" Bucky exclaimed, "I ain't never seen eyes like yours before and God, the rest of you…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head before giving Steve a helpless smile.

People like Bucky also didn't call people like Steve beautiful.

Weakly, Steve took two steps back until his calves hit the edge of Bucky's bed. Then, with his heart beating in his throat, he let himself down on the mattress. He had no idea how to respond. His head was spinning more than it had the day he'd gone on the Cyclone with Clint. No-one, especially not a good-looking sportsman like Bucky had ever called him beautiful. He was the kind of skinny that made people either want to feed him or take him to hospital. He wasn't attractive, he wasn't beautiful- he'd spent the majority of his life in hospital and his body reflected that.

The bed beside Steve dipped, ripping Steve back to reality and making him jump.

"You really don't believe me, do you?" Bucky asked Steve quietly after a long pause. He sounded upset but not on his own behalf, more like he was upset for Steve.

"It's not about what I believe or not." Steve reasoned with Bucky weakly, keeping his eyes trained on his bony knees, "I've come to terms with my body by now. It's just the way things are- the way I am. It's other people that always feel the need to make a comment about the way I look."

Bucky cringed, obviously remembering his previous remarks about how small Steve was. He sighed before saying, "I know I said you're small, but I don't think there's anything wrong with that. It probably ain't worth much to ya, but like I said earlier- I think you're beautiful."

It might have been the unlikeliness of the situation that sparked the anger that rose up in Steve. It might also have been his mind telling him that this Bucky guy was probably just an incredibly good actor and was undoubtedly making a fool out of him with his smartphone sitting somewhere and recording the whole thing. Whatever the reason was, Steve felt his hands clench, and his face went hot for a completely different reason than before.

"Is this a game to you? Is this what you like doing? Finding some poor idiot and playing him for a fool?!" Steve spat, his voice trembling with anger and embarrassment.

"This ain't a joke!" Bucky insisted irately, evidently possessing a temper of his own beneath all that bravado.

"Well fuck you!" Steve yelled, feeling his eyes begin to burn, "You think I'm stupid, don't you? No-one says stuff like that to me! Especially not guys like you! I'm repulsive Bucky! If I asked you to prove to me that you really think I'm beautiful, you wouldn't even be able to pr-."

Anger? Sadness? Happiness? Surprise? Shock?

Which one was he supposed to feel? What was his body supposed to do?

Bucky's hands were warm, cupping Steve's face gently, his long fingers intertwining with his straw blond hair while his thumbs caressed his cheekbones gently. Bucky's lips were impossibly soft against his own and tasted like beer and peppermint.

Completely of their own accord, Steve's hands reached for Bucky, pulling him closer because Bucky felt good. He felt warm, soft, caring, honest and Steve didn't want to let him go; he wanted to believe every single word Bucky had just told him, even if just for a moment.

Bucky took Steve's pulling as encouragement and pushed closer to the blond until Steve was lying on his back with Bucky leaning over him.

Steve didn't know how to kiss. In fact, this was the first time he'd ever been kissed. His lips followed Bucky's lead awkwardly, trying to mirror his movements as best they could without disrupting the rhythm that Bucky was moving at. He must have done something right because Bucky sighed into his lips, moving his hands from Steve's face to his chest.

The heat from Bucky's hands soaked through the thin shirt and into Steve's skin. Steve squirmed, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath Bucky's eager hands.

To Steve's surprise, Bucky seemed to understand immediately, breaking the kiss to say, "I promise you doll, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You don't gotta hide."

Sucking in a startled breath, Steve pulled away a little. He didn't know what his face was displaying, but Bucky looked like the look on Steve's face was hurting him to see. His eyes were so warm that it overwhelmed Steve, made him want to cry.

"Shh doll, you're okay." Bucky promised him quietly, giving Steve a soft kiss on the cheek. He let his lips linger there for a moment longer before catching Steve's lips in another kiss.

Steve didn't know Bucky. This was the first time they'd met. He shouldn't feel this comfortable underneath Bucky's hands. He shouldn't relish what Bucky was saying to him. He shouldn't want Bucky to continue doing what he was doing.

"You're drunk." Steve whispered against Bucky's lips.

"I ain't. I throw up when I'm drunk. And right now? I'm kissing you, darlin', and I ain't planning on stopping anytime soon."

Bucky's Brooklyn drawl elicited a broken sound from Steve and Bucky deepened the kiss as if his kiss was supposed to put Steve back together again.

It was the touch of Bucky's calloused hand against the flat of his stomach underneath his shirt that yanked Steve back to reality. He felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over him. He pulled away abruptly, lifting his hands to push against Bucky's chest.

The much larger brunet complied immediately, getting off of Steve to give him space.

"Shit." The word slipped through Bucky's lips in the same moment that Steve thought it.

"I'm sorry." The apology tumbled from Steve's lips, "I have to… I have to go."

"Wait! I'm sorry!" Bucky pleaded, "I should've asked for permission first. I shouldn't have done that."

"No." Steve insisted, wanting to gag when he saw the wrecked, apologetic look on Bucky's face, "It's my fault. I… you didn't do anything wrong, Buck."

He couldn't wait for a reply from Bucky. He knew that his resolve was moments away from crumbling. He had to leave. He shot Bucky the most apologetic look he had ever given anyone before snatching up his shirt and pullover and rushing out of the room, out of the house and onto the road.


	3. Chapter 3

Happy Sunday to you all! I hope you had an amazing week! As promised, here you have the next chapter of The One You Want.  
In the last chapter, there seemed to be some confusion about the term "laminated wooden doors". To clear up any confusion, I decided to add what laminated wood is so that there are no misunderstandings 3  
"Laminating is a process of gluing things together. When laminating wood, the process typically refers to plastics or other materials laminated to plywood, solid wood or composites. Wood-laminate terminology often refers to flooring, but the process of laminating also includes veneer laminating and laminating solid wood together to make furniture." Laminated wooden doors have a specific look which is why I chose to add that into the description. I encourage you to head to Google Images if you don't know what they look like. :)  
Also, thank you for the feedback! That way I have the opportunity to correct any mistakes or clear up misunderstandings! I really appreciate it!

Now that that's been cleared up- I hope you enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Not only had Clint woken him up as soon as he'd gotten back from the party during the early hours of the morning, but Clint was now also sitting across from Steve with a very discontent, if not stern, look on his face.

Steve, still slightly groggy, only managed a half-hearted glare.  
He knew that he didn't really have a reason to be upset with Clint. It was actually the exact opposite- he'd been the one to mess up and yet he couldn't quite find the words he needed to explain himself to his best friend. As a result, he chose to stay quiet, watching Clint's troubled eyes instead.

Clint was studying Steve's face, until, much to Steve's dismay, his eyes flicked to the shirt Steve was wearing. It was painfully obvious that the shirt didn't belong to him: it was far too big, sitting awkwardly with one side slipping down over his upper arm, leaving his collarbone and the bony curve of his shoulder exposed.

Steve could see the cogs in Clint's mind turning, forming thoughts that translated into words that were carefully formed at the tip of Clint's tongue before he spoke up, saying, "Got yourself a new shirt there, Steve?"

Steve stirred uncomfortably, squirming where he sat at the edge of his unmade bed. He didn't want to have this conversation; not before the sun had even risen- preferably never. Much to Steve's dismay however, Clint was the kind of person who needed issues sorted out as quickly as possible. Steve knew that denying Clint this conversation would leave his best friend lying awake for the rest of the night. Steve took one look at the tired shadows beneath Clint's eyes and decided that he'd give Clint whatever he needed to get a halfway good night's sleep. Steve wasn't the type to make his friends suffer on his account and he wasn't about to let some jock change that. "The host of the party messed some beer on me and offered to give me a fresh shirt."

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Clint replied softly, having picked up on Steve's fluster, "I just don't appreciate the fact that you took off like that earlier on. I didn't even _see _you leave, man. And on top of that, you didn't even text me to let me know that you'd left. After looking for you for _ages, _I had to find out from some random girl that she'd seen you make a run for it. 'Said that you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"Something like that. I'm really sorry." Steve muttered, eyebrows knitting into a remorseful frown, "I just… had to get away from that party is all."

Clint sat up a little straighter, his anger at Steve seemingly forgotten. Instead, he looked worried, sitting forward and leaning his hands on his knees. "Did something happen?" He asked Steve, "Did someone hurt you? Want me to punch someone? I can totally punch someone for you if you want me to."

Clint really did look like he was ready to punch just about anyone. Clint's gesture loosened the knot in Steve's stomach, and he felt himself smile, shaking his head lightly before replying. "There's no-one you need to punch." He assured him, chuckling when Clint deflated, visibly disappointed, "It was a lapse of judgement on my part. It won't happen again."

"You didn't get drunk, did you?"

"Hell no!" Steve laughed, "I'd probably throw up after one drink."

"There's no arguing that point." Clint conceded with a nonchalant shrug of his narrow shoulders.

There was a moment of silence that followed in which Steve watched Clint, observing the way Clint's thoughts played out in his eyes. Clint was trying to decide whether to drop the subject or keep pressing Steve for a full explanation. He knew that he couldn't hide anything from Clint; knew that Clint was probably aware that Steve was purposefully omitting things from his story. He just hoped that Clint would respect his decision and give him time. In truth, all Steve wanted was to fall asleep and keep pretending that nothing had happened. He was embarrassed and angry; not so much at Bucky as he was at himself. After all, he was the one who had followed Bucky to his room, and he had been the one to kiss Bucky back. Being drunk was no excuse but Steve was willing to bet an arm and a leg on the fact that Bucky Barnes hadn't been himself when he'd made the decision to kiss a scrawny college student in his bedroom.

"I'm sorry for making you worry." Steve said, biting his bottom lip when Clint's eyes found him.

"Shit happens." Clint smirked, waving a hand dismissively, "Seriously. I was more worried than angry so now that I know you're alright, I'm over it."

"Thanks Clint." Steve smiled.

"Hey don't mention it, pal." Clint mirrored Steve's smile, holding eye contact for a moment longer before getting to work on his jeans.

Steve watched fondly, amused by the fact that Clint was struggling to get his legs out of the tight fabric. Clint had put on the tightest jeans he owned, saying that they made his ass look amazing and that Natasha wouldn't be able to resist.

That's right… Natasha. Steve hadn't even asked Clint about that.

By the time Clint had stripped down to his boxers and the shirt he'd been wearing, Steve had vowed to enquire about Natasha in the morning when he was thinking more coherently. Smiling to himself, he slipped back under his duvet, appreciating the fact that the mattress was still warm.

"Is it weird that I don't want to take this off because it smells like Natasha?" When Steve looked over at Clint, he saw that Clint was sitting up in bed, pulling at his t-shirt tentatively, a sheepish sort of smile on his face.

"No." Steve assured him quietly, his hand coming to rest on his own chest lightly, his fingers stroking over the shirt carefully, "It makes sense."

* * *

Steve was going to die. Before that though, he was definitely going to throw up.

He was making his way down the corridor leading to the locker rooms. In his hands, he held Bucky's t-shirt. Occasionally, Steve's eyes found the eagle printed on the front. Even though he had washed it, it still held a certain scent that Steve assumed was Bucky's smell.

The weekend had passed by in a blur of TV-shows and fantasy novels and Steve was starting a new week at college. He had decided to start the week off by returning Bucky's shirt. He had briefly considered throwing it away or keeping it, but Steve's mother had raised him better than that. Despite the knowledge of a good deed being done, Steve was still incredibly nervous, if not afraid.

What would Bucky say when he saw him? Would he even want to talk to him? Would he deny ever having met him? Steve's steps faltered, and he came to a standstill in the middle of the corridor. Students passed him silently, not wasting a glance on him while they made their way to their respective classes or dorm rooms.

Steve's breaths were shallow, and he caught himself making a mental note that his asthma spray was in the right inside pocket of his messenger bag.

What if, much like Steve, Bucky wanted nothing more than to forget the whole thing? Wouldn't Steve showing up at the locker rooms of all places, upset him? He'd be surrounded by all of his friends, his football team… But Steve was fairly certain that Bucky didn't live on campus, considering the amount of money his family had at their disposal. Steve also didn't know Bucky's major so how else was he supposed to return the shirt to him if not at the locker rooms where Steve _knew _he'd be?

Swallowing heavily, Steve forced himself to move forward again, one shaky step at a time until he rounded the last corner. The air in that part of the corridor smelt different- moist, with a strong undertone of rubber, sweat and soap.

He pressed on valiantly, listening to the jumble of boisterous voices drifting from the locker room entrance. In the background, he could hear numerous showers running, fading into the cascade of different sounds like the quiet buzz of the cheap radio he'd once owned.

Despite his best intentions, Steve fell short just clear of the open doors of the locker rooms. His mind was telling him to move but his body was responding with a resounding 'No!' rooting him to the linoleum floor beneath the soles of his sneakers like a tree.

"Hey Odinson, did you hear what Barnes said earlier today? Hey Bucky, tell us again. C'mon!"

Steve flinched, pressing his back against the wall next to the entrance. His hands tightened around the soft material in his hands. His heart, beating furiously behind his ribs, rose into his dry throat.

"Seriously Wilson?" Bucky groused in response.

"Oh, come on! Just tell 'em Bucky! We're a _team, _aren't we?" The student Bucky had referred to as Wilson replied cheekily.

There was a heavy sigh before Bucky spoke up again. "I just told him that I'd met someone over the weekend is all."

Steve closed his eyes. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. He should be leaving to come back at a later stage; so why didn't his body agree? Why couldn't he get himself to budge even just a little?

"No way!" Another unfamiliar, deeper voice replied enthusiastically, "At the party?"

"Yeah." Bucky concurred.

"What happened?

"I wish I knew!" Bucky replied, sounding rueful, "If I hadn't been so goddamn drunk, I'd probably remember more."

"I told you that you're a lightweight Barnes! 'Comes from the fact that you never drink, really." The deep voice replied bemusedly. He had a foreign accent; one that Steve struggled to place.

"Yeah well believe me, I learnt my damn lesson." Bucky replied.

A rich laugh floated from the changing rooms before the same deep voice with the foreign accent spoke up again. "Well what _can_ you remember?"

"She was the most beautiful gal I've ever seen, for sure. She had these incredible blue eyes. She was real petit-like; made me wanna protect her. She kept saying that she didn't think that she was beautiful, but she _was_. I could have just looked at 'er all damn night."

The shirt fell from Steve's grip, sinking to the floor in a sorrowful blue heap. Steve's hand shot to the inside of his messenger bag where his fingers retrieved his asthma spray. He didn't know how many times he pushed down on his spray or how many times the medicine rushed into his lungs before they finally stopped trembling. He didn't know what the others replied to Bucky's confession because he could no longer hear them. He no longer heard the feint rush of the water from the showers, nor did he hear the opening and closing of lockers or the quiet footfalls of the students passing him. The only sound drumming in his ears was the sound of his racing heart, hammering in his chest, attempting to break out of his rib cage so it could fall to the floor and shatter into a million pieces.

Bucky thought that Steve was a girl.

Was that why Bucky had kissed him? Was that why Bucky had been so smitten with him; had called him beautiful? Because he had thought that Steve was a _girl_?

"Oh my God…" The words slipped from Steve's lips and yet again, he pushed his asthma spray into his mouth, pushing down on his inhaler a few times helplessly.

If Steve had been born a girl, he probably would have been beautiful. But as a boy? As a boy he was weak and scrawny. Bucky's intoxicated mind must have come to the conclusion that Steve was a beautiful girl and not a gaunt guy. So, if Bucky had been sober and had met Steve under the same circumstances, he would have thought Steve was unattractive.

Just like everyone else did.

A quiet whimper forced its way up Steve's throat. He felt humiliated, exposed. His eyes found his long, bony fingers and he cringed, his shoulders curling in on him as if he wanted to hide. He did want to hide- he wanted to disappear.

Slowly, Steve backed away, his eyes flicking from the shirt on the floor to the open door of the locker rooms. Clenching his jaw, he turned his back on both, marching back to his dorm room with his tongue wedged between his teeth and his eyes burning with unshed tears.

Guys like Bucky didn't like guys like Steve.

Guys like Bucky liked girls, pretty girls.

* * *

And there it is! My heart hurts for poor Stevie!  
Stay tuned to see what happens next! I'll upload coming Sunday! Feel free to comment if you'd like!  
See you on the flip-side! 3


	4. Chapter 4

Helloooo everyone! Happy Sunday to you all! I hope you had an awesome week! I've been doing all sorts of house work today so the chapter is a little later during the day. But, alas, here it is! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The canvas was blank.

Forty-five minutes into the lesson and Steve's canvas was still completely void of paint. His troubled azure eyes flicked to Miss Peggy Carter, the arts and history tutor at Avengers Academy. Clad in a beautiful floral dress, she was making her rounds, appraising each artwork with intrigued eyes and a warm smile.

Steve cringed, gaze panning back to the empty landscape of the canvas before him. He _really _didn't want to disappoint her. She reminded Steve a lot of his late mother, Sarah. She was kind, intelligent and capable- the kind of woman any girl would look up to. Her British accent and red-painted lips made her stand out and her warm brown eyes drew everyone in like a welcoming hug.

Far too soon for Steve's liking, she came to a standstill next to his easel. Holding his breath, he watched the way her eyes studied the non-existent artwork, full of expectation that quickly died down with the realisation that Steve had come up with absolutely nothing.

Steve averted his eyes. "I'm sorry." He apologized, embarrassment colouring his ears red.

"What on earth are you apologizing for, darling?" Peggy asked him with a frown, "I hardly think that having an off day is something that you need to apologize for. It happens to the best, you know?"

Steve stared at the empty canvas resolutely, too afraid to look at Peggy again. He didn't want her to see how he felt. He didn't want anyone to realise that there was something bothering him, that something had _happened _at that party. It was all he could think about, whether he wanted to or not. Bucky floated around his mind like a pesky bug that he just couldn't seem to squash regardless of how _hard_ he tried.

Repressing unwanted feelings was one of the things Steve was supposed to be good at. It was a skill he had learned in school when people had started targeting him because of his appearance. The skill was then further honed when his father had passed away when he was eight years old. Then, his ability to repress things was perfected when his mother had passed away ten years later, leaving him alone without any extended family to cling to. Steve hoped that, if he ignored what had happened with Bucky long enough, it would just go away. And although Steve was so good at repressing, Bucky Barnes seemed to be something he couldn't quite forget. And that in itself, was probably the worst part about the situation he was stuck in.

"Does it ever go away?" Steve heard himself ask.

Peggy considered Steve's question, smiling at him gently while she thought. She was unaware of the context, Steve knew that, but he also knew that she would try to answer his question nonetheless.

"It does. You just need to be patient, _and _you need to be kind to yourself." She paused, shooting a quick glance at the wall clock hanging above the door, "How about you take the rest of the lesson off? It's your last class of the day, am I right?"

Steve nodded dolefully.

"Give yourself the time you need." She went on, a motherly smile gracing her full lips, "I'm assuming this is far more elaborate than just a lack of inspiration. When I'm upset about something, I usually put it on paper. Why don't you use the time off you have now to do that? Perhaps you'll feel better with it out in the open."

"I'll try." Steve promised, giving her his best attempt at a smile, "Thank you, Peggy."

* * *

Steve didn't give himself enough time to contemplate what he was going to draw- not like he had during art class. Instead, he snuggled up to his headrest, angling his legs up to give himself a surface to rest his sketchpad against. A quiet sigh from Steve disrupted the near to deafening silence in his dorm room. Then, he began to draw.

He watched the pencil draw fine lines across the white paper as though it had a mind of its own.

Once his hand knew what it wanted to draw, Steve dared to allow his mind to wander. He didn't grasp onto any specific thought, but instead, began daydreaming about everything and nothing at all, chewing his lips distractedly.

It didn't take long before Steve could make out the distinct features of a person's face. He had drawn a sharp jawline, high cheekbones and a rather ordinary nose. He moved on to the hair- messy tufts of short dark hair. It was only when Steve found that he couldn't _remember _what the ears had looked like, that he realised that he was drawing not just a male face, but a very specific male face. Steve's eyebrows knitted together in frustration and the grip on his pencil became a little too tight. The lines that followed the pencil's stiff movements were darker, angrier, jagged. No longer did the drawing look delicate. Instead, it told of everything that Steve was trying to forget. The lips that appeared were those same lips that Steve had enjoyed kissing so much. They were parted in a catty smile, the teeth behind those lips straight and perfect. The eyes that Steve drew were bright and awake, round and expressive and incredibly beautiful. The smile on Bucky's face was so genuine that it reached his eyes, adding small creases around the outer corners of both eyes.

Steve's hand moved effortlessly, the pencil recreating the image that Steve had in his mind's eye. He added dozens of small details, the image of Bucky becoming more and more vivid the longer he allowed himself to think about the handsome football player.

While he drew, snippets of the party came back- the sound of Bucky's voice, the feeling of Bucky's hands on him, the way Bucky's room had smelt, and the way Bucky had tasted. Emotions crashed into existence like fireworks, colourful, loud- overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

Once the sketch was done, Steve's hand let go of the pencil immediately, as though it singed him. The pencil dropped onto the sketchpad and rolled off, landing on the navy-blue blanket Steve was sitting on.

He took a deep, shaky breath, staring down at the likeness of Bucky he had just created.

It pained him to see Bucky. It was as though Steve was back in that stuffy corridor, listening to Bucky talk about him, calling him a girl. It reminded him of the way it had felt to be on the receiving end of Bucky's warm affection. Everything that had felt so right with Bucky, now felt wrong, _fake_\- like a lie.

It made him sick.

Driven by the many negative emotions running amok in his mind, Steve picked up his sketchpad and threw it. The pages fluttered, as if the sketchpad was trying to take flight in a futile attempt to save itself. A heartbeat later, the pad slammed against the wall next to the door before crashing to the floor in a heap of bent and creased paper.

The sudden silence threatened to crush Steve. Sucking in a stuttering breath, he pulled his legs up against his chest and buried his face in his knees, trying again, to forget.

Steve was so distraught that he didn't even care when he heard a key rattling in the lock.

He knew that trying to hide what had just happened was utterly futile. The emotions wrapping their hands around his throat would play out on his face regardless of how hard he would try to hide them. So instead, he stayed just as he was while he listened to the door open.

Clint was whistling a vaguely familiar tune, the jingle of keys accompanying the melody.

Steve knew exactly when Clint spotted him because the whistling came to an abrupt stop. The keys were discarded on Clint's bed and his bag was dropped next to the desk that stood between their beds, against the wall opposite to the door, leaving just enough space for a small bedside table next to each bed.

Clint then climbed onto Steve's bed slowly, taking a seat next to the distraught young man.

"Steve?" he whispered, putting a hand on Steve's knee. His hand was big enough to cover Steve's entire kneecap, his fingers massaging the soft parts around the bone gently.

The impulse to reply to Clint parted Steve's lips before the inability to speak closed them again.

In lieu of the silence, Clint added, "What's going on Steve?"

In the cover of his legs, Steve bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to keep his tears from spilling over the rims of his eyelids. He was so humiliated- more so than he had allowed himself to believe. He felt like an idiot for having believed that Bucky, _Bucky _of all people, could have ever seen anything special in him, anything worth loving. Steve yearned to be able to travel back in time and undo the terrible mistake that he had made. And for what? What reason could he possibly have had? How could he have let himself get so carried away? It was just some popular guy who had been too drunk to tell the difference between a girl and a boy! It was just Bucky Barnes for God's sake!

His first kiss! The kiss that was supposed to be _special_ was nothing but a meaningless exchange between a love-deprived fool and a drunken idiot!

"I'm so stupid!" It _finally _broke out of Steve.

"No, you ain't. Steve you're one of the smartest people I know." Clint insisted wholeheartedly.

Steve huffed, shaking his head. "Don't kid yourself, pal."

Steve heard Clint sigh before the grip on Steve's knee tightened into a prompting squeeze. "You know that you can talk to me if you want Steve."

Repression hadn't worked and neither had drawing Bucky, so what other choice did Steve have? Even if he was humiliated, even if he really didn't want to admit to his mistake… maybe talking things out with Clint would ease his load even just a little.

"Remember the shirt you saw on Friday night?" Steve asked apprehensively, raising his head to look at Clint.

"You mean the one you said you got from the host of the party?" Clint enquired.

Steve nodded. "All of that was true but… I guess I chose to… leave out… something. I was embarrassed to tell you; thought that if I just ignored it, it would stop bothering me so much."

Slowly, Clint nodded, sitting back to give Steve some space.  
"Go on." He prompted him gently after a moment.

"Do you know a guy named Bucky?" Steve's voice broke over Bucky's name and he cringed.

"Yeah." Clint affirmed, "You mean Bucky Barnes, right? The quarterback of the Avengers?"

A whine rose into Steve throat. "Of course he's the freaking quarterback." He complained, wallowing only as long as it took Clint to raise an eyebrow at him quizzically, "I went up to his room with him because he promised to give me a new shirt since he'd messed mine up. He gave me a new shirt. We argued and…"

"And what?"

"And the next thing I know, we're kissing."

"Wait." Clint held up his hand, looking more puzzled than he had to start off with, "Are you trying to tell me that the college's golden boy and ladies' man, Bucky Barnes, made out with you in his room at his party last Friday night?"

"Thanks for summing that up." Steve grumbled, "But yes, that's what happened."

"Who kissed whom?"

"He kissed me." Steve replied tightly, feeling slightly insulted that Clint thought that he'd take advantage of a drunk quarterback. What was he? A groupie?

"Then what happened?"

"He got handsy and I stopped him. Then I left."

Again, Clint lifted his hand, visibly struggling to wrap his mind around the situation Steve was so reluctantly describing to him, "Are you trying to tell me that one of the hottest guys in college tried to make a move on you and you _stopped _him?! Steve. Steve! Come on, man!"

"Clint! He was drunk!" Steve exclaimed, losing the war he had been waging against his blush.

"So what Steve?!" Clint threw his hands up in the air, making a frustrated noise, "It was clearly consensual!"

"Only because he thought that I was a girl!" Steve snapped, wilting once he'd spoken the painful truth.

Clint straightened at that, his confusion giving way to worry. "Are you serious? He thought you were a girl?! How do you know?"

"I overheard him talking to his friends about this pretty, skinny girl that he had met at the party with the prettiest blue eyes he's ever seen." The words tasted bitter in Steve's mouth and he spat them out in hopes of getting rid of the foul taste they were causing.

"Shit." Clint pursed his lips, "I'm so sorry Steve."

"I'm fine." Steve waved it off, swallowing his feelings of humiliation and sadness in favour of once again, pretending like he was fine.

Clint knew Steve well enough not to buy it though. His face melted into a reproachful frown, his arms moving to fold across his chest. "Stop talking crap Steve. You obviously ain't fine. If you want me to punch him, just say the word. I'll break his pretty-boy jaw."

"No, let's not do that. I don't want you to end up in hospital."

"Hey, maybe Natasha will feel bad for me if I do. Maybe she'll even come visit me in hospital. It's a win-win if you ask me, buddy."

"As tempting as it sounds," Steve rolled his eyes, allowing a half-hearted laugh, "Let's not."

"Hey, my offer stands. All you gotta do is say the word Steve-o."

"Don't ever call me that again." Steve muttered, fixing Clint with a pretend-glare.

"Sir, yes sir!" Clint saluted him, grinning when Steve's crooked smile became more genuine, "Look at the bright side Steve: you've been at this college for almost eleven months now and you haven't seen Bucky once. What're the chances of running into him again?"

"You're right." Steve nodded, his eyes finding his sketchpad lying on the floor by the door, "At least I don't have to see him again."

* * *

There you goooo! I really hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a review and stop by again next week for the next chapter!  
See you! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys! I hope you've had a good week! Mine has been absolutely crazy!  
I was sick from Thursday through to yesterday but I'm starting to feel a lot better!  
Here you have chapter 5, which is actually one of my favourite chapters! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Steve watched Peggy Carter curiously. There was something strange about her. She was a lot more energetic than usual, greeting every student with an abnormally bright smile. In her defense, Peggy was always smiling, but the kind of smile she was wearing this time made her look like she was incredibly excited about something. Had she maybe landed a date with someone? Was she in love?

Infected by her contagious happiness, Steve felt excitement bubble up in him and before he knew it, he was smiling. Enthusiastically, he busied himself with his art supplies, preparing for their art lesson. After his blunder during their last art class, Steve was fiercely determined to redeem himself and show Peggy that he wasn't all out of inspiration!

Within the next few minutes, he had his easel set out in front of him with a large A2 sketch pad leaning against the easel's wooden skeleton, just waiting to be filled with life. His pencils lay, carefully sorted and sharpened, on a low table beside the easel. His putty-eraser waited dutifully, as did his smudging tools.

"Good afternoon Steve."

Steve jumped. "I didn't see you there, Miss Carter." He stuttered, righting himself again and adjusting his balance on the three-legged stool he was seated on.

Peggy laughed lightly, placing a hand on his shoulder briefly. "I'm sorry if I startled you. I wanted to ask you how you are today? Are you feeling a little better?"

Steve hesitated. The truth was that he didn't feel any better. If anything, he had become more frustrated by his situation with every passing day. As much as he wanted to forget Bucky, the menace kept popping up in Steve's mind, going so far as to manifest in his dreams. Time did make it easier to deal with though. It was like Steve's scoliosis- it didn't get better but with time, he learned how to deal with it.

"I'm fine." Steve assured her, "I'm excited actually. What are we doing today?"

"Well I'm glad to hear it." Peggy grinned, "After our last conversation, I considered whether there was something I could do to help you get back into your zone. As a result, I will be giving the class something specific to draw instead of letting each of you decide what you want to draw. I'm actually quite excited to see what each of you make of the lesson!"

Steve relaxed, feeling a genuine smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "That sounds great!" He exclaimed, "Thank you, Miss Carter."

"I do what I can." She ran a delicate hand through her long brown hair, shooting a glance at her wristwatch. She straightened, seemingly shocked by how quickly time had gone by, "Well, class is about to start. I should probably get my things together!" And off she was, rushing to the front of the class before Steve had the chance to reply.

Steve was glad that they were going to draw a still-life. It took the pressure off of him to be creative when he still hadn't found his muse again. He looked forward to being able to lose himself in the details of a fruit bowel or a bouquet of flowers.

Around him, the other art students were getting ready also. Sharon, who was only taking the class because she had to, was busy struggling with her sketchbook, trying to get it to stay on the easel.

Wanda Maximoff and her brother Pietro sat at the very back of the class, already ready and waiting. The two Russian twins were extremely introverted and generally kept to themselves. Sometimes Steve wondered whether Pietro even liked art or whether he was only taking the course to be around his sister who adored art, being incredibly good with her hands. Pietro on the other hand, was more athletically inclined, being one of the best track-runners the college had.

Steve smiled. So far, he'd had a good day. He'd gotten his art history assignment back and had gotten a distinction. He'd spent lunchtime with Clint and had made plans to marathon The Lord of the Rings with him that coming weekend. For a change, he'd even gotten more than enough sleep the night before. It was one of the best days he'd had since the party two weeks prior.

Steve startled when he heard a loud knock on the door. He looked around the class, making a mental list of everyone who was there. Everyone was present, so who-?

"Come in!" Peggy sang, practically dancing to the front of the class with a low wooden stool in hand.

Steve watched Peggy place the stool in front of the large chalkboard before a movement drew his eyes to the person walking into the class.

His breath got stuck in his throat, his eyes widened, and his heart stuttered.

"Barnes!" Peggy intercepted him at the front of the class, giving his hand an enthusiastic shake, "I'm so glad you could make it!"

While Steve's mind raced a mile a minute, teetering precariously close to a panic, Peggy and Bucky fell into place in front of the class and, almost as if rehearsed, turned to face the class simultaneously. Whereas Peggy's smile was full of excitement, Bucky's smile was charming and strangely different to the way Steve remembered it from their first meeting.

Bucky was dressed in a loose pair of grey jogging pants and a black tank top over which he wore a red tracksuit jacket. The look suited Bucky. It was a lot more casual than the Henley and the tight jeans he had worn to the party. His eyes, still as stunning as Steve remembered them, were much more alert now, taking in his new surroundings eagerly. Steve watched, with a mixture of anger, sadness and curiosity, as Bucky's eyes found the back of the classroom where Peggy had set up a number of metal shelves filled with art supplies.

"At the beginning of the semester," Peggy spoke up, "I told you that we would eventually start using models to practice our portraits. Lucky for us, James agreed to be our model for this class. He still has some hours to make up that he missed because of football practice."

"Go figure." Steve muttered beneath his breath, just quietly enough for the class to miss. He ducked his head behind his sketchpad, allowing his facial expression to derail for a moment before schooling his features again. This was a nightmare! The last time he had seen Bucky was in his bedroom after kissing him. Now he was going to be stuck in the same room as Bucky for over an hour while he had to _draw_ him? Looking at Bucky briefly was already painful. Studying his every detail to transfer it onto paper? Steve wanted to break his hands for an excuse not to have to put himself through that.

He didn't know whether Bucky was going to recognize him or not but regardless of that, he had to make sure that no one caught on to what Steve was feeling. It was difficult enough for him to make friends- he didn't need everyone to know what had happened between him and _Bucky Barnes _of all people.

"Alright Bucky, just take a seat on that stool there, please." Steve heard Peggy say and he looked up again, craning his neck to look around the easel. He watched Bucky saunter over to the low wooden stool that Peggy had previously put there.

The brunette gave his jogging pants a gentle tug before sitting down. He looked confident and yet, if Steve looked more carefully, there was an air of sheepishness to his movements. He probably wasn't used to being in an art class. On the other hand, he probably wasn't a stranger to being stared at, thought Steve bitterly.

"Have you ever been a model for an art class before?" Peggy asked Bucky.

Bucky's eyes found her, and he shook his head, offering her an apologetic smile that Peggy was quick to dismiss with a grin and a wave of her delicate hand. "Alright, the important thing is, that you don't move too much. This is the advanced arts class, so the students shouldn't have too much trouble compensating for any movements you make but of course, it _would_ make their lives a lot easier if you don't move too much at first."

"Okay so no scratching my nose if it itches, got that." Bucky grinned.

An amused chuckle vibrated through the class. Steve glared, hating the way even he thought that that lame joke was mildly amusing.

"Steve?"

Steve jumped, startled by being spoken to and feeling like he'd been caught out doing something unheard of. His wide blue eyes found Peggy instantly and his teeth began worrying his bottom lip mercilessly. Had she been able to read his thoughts off of his face? Had he thought out loud by mistake? Had he done something else wrong? Was she going to reprimand him in front of Bucky of all people?

"Would you like to pose Bucky for us? It might help you get some of your inspiration back."

Steve deflated. He would have much rather been yelled at instead of asked to touch Bucky. He didn't think that he hesitated for too long, but apparently, it was long enough to be noticeable.

"Hell, if he won't do it, I will." Sharon piped up, giggling unabashedly.

The way Bucky smirked at her made Steve bristle. What would be worse than having to touch Bucky? Watching a girl get her hands all over him. Hell, Bucky would probably _enjoy _her getting all handsy with him, judging by that annoying smirk spreading across his face.

Fueled by his anger, Steve squared his shoulders and jutted out his jaw, saying "No. I'll do it." before getting up and marching to the front of the class resolutely.

By the time Steve had come to a standstill in front of Bucky though, his anger had retreated with its tail between its legs, leaving Steve incomprehensibly nervous. He could feel his hands trembling and he hoped to God that his palms weren't sweating. Helplessly, he looked over at Peggy, wincing inwardly when he realised that she had picked up on how distraught he was. He hoped that she would peg it on him finding himself in dry-spell of inspiration.

With an encouraging smile, Peggy drew up next to Steve, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Bucky? This is Steve Rogers. Steve? This is Bucky Barnes."

The words "I know. We've met before." balanced precariously on the tip of Steve's tongue until he managed to swallow them. Apprehensively, he tore his eyes away from his oblivious tutor to look at Bucky.

"Hey." Steve rasped out.

"Hey there Steve. Nice to meet ya." Bucky replied cheerily. There was no recognition in his eyes.

Steve swallowed. He felt as though someone had just punched him in the gut.

Absent-mindedly, he noticed Peggy retreat to her desk to give Bucky and Steve the space that they needed to work.

The distraught blond was also acutely aware of the fact that not just Bucky, but the entire class was watching him closely. Steve's heart was racing, his throat was tightening, and his stomach was aching something fierce.

Knowing that only Bucky could see him do it, Steve closed his eyes for a brief moment, swallowing any emotion he might be feeling before forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

If there was any emotional response to Steve's actions on Bucky's end, Steve didn't see it, too busy considering what Bucky was wearing.

"Could you take your hoodie off for me? It might look a little strange from certain angles." Steve commented, making his voice sound impassive.

Almost too eagerly, Bucky took off his hoodie, throwing it to Peggy who caught it dutifully.

From the corner of his eye, Steve could see Peggy begin to fold the red jacket.

"So how do you want me?" Bucky asked him, smirking lightly.

Steve's stomach lurched, and he had to bite down on his tongue to swallow the whine that was building his throat. Drunk Bucky had definitely been less flustering. "Uh…" Steve swallowed, "Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Sure thing, Steve, knock yourself out."

Steve wanted to beg Bucky to not say his name. It made his heart stutter every time. It was also unexpectedly painful. Now Bucky knew who Steve was- knew his name- and yet, he simultaneously had no idea that Steve was the person he had kissed at the party.

Steve made a point of not looking Bucky in the eyes while he began to work.

He warred with himself while he began to study Bucky. He assured himself that he was allowed to look, allowed to touch and stare and yet he felt like it was a faux pa. His beholding wasn't strictly professional. When he looked at Bucky's hands, he remembered what they had felt like on his skin. When he saw Bucky's hair, he knew that it was just as soft as it looked. He recalled the feeling of Bucky leaning over him and how safe he had felt in those strong arms.

Steve blinked. Clenching his jaw, he bent down, placing a hand on each of Bucky's knees. Gently, he spread Bucky's knees until the latter's legs were comfortably parted. Bucky was pliant under Steve's touch, watching Steve with attentive eyes as the blond worked. Next, Steve moved to place each of Bucky's arms. The fact that his hands were touching Bucky's skin was earth-shatteringly flustering and Steve could feel the blush creeping up his chest slowly.

Bucky's arms were heavy, so Steve's movements slowed. Bucky was patient with him, making sure not to tense or resist while Steve moved each arm into position. "Relax your wrists. You can drop your hands." Steve instructed Bucky, making the mistake of looking up at him. Their faces were only inches apart and their eyes met immediately.

Unwittingly, Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widened marginally. His stuttering heartbeat jumped into his throat and his blush continued to make its way up his neck, towards his jawline intrepidly.

"Like this?" Bucky asked Steve at a whisper.

When Steve looked down, he saw that Bucky had dropped his hands that were now dangling from the ends of his arms of which the elbows were resting on a knee each. Bucky was bent forward slightly, his shoulders slumped in a casual, comfortable sort of way.

"Yeah." Steve mumbled, lifting his eyes to look at Bucky's again, "That's perfect Buck."

Breathing out slowly, Steve straightened up, pretending to take a step back to have a better view while in reality, he desperately needed to get away from Bucky's warm body.

"That's looking good." Peggy encouraged him, "Keep going Steve."

Steve nodded numbly. He erased the backwards step he had taken, lifting his hands to straighten out a few strands of Bucky's hair. Just as Steve remembered, Bucky's fringe fell into his face, regardless of how many times Steve brushed it back.

"It does that." Bucky muttered apologetically.

"Yeah I know." Steve replied unthinkingly.

In response, Bucky raised his eyes to meet Steve's gaze. There was a different look on Bucky's face then; a look of confusion and curiosity. It took Steve so much by surprise that he had to take a step back again. A buzz ran through Steve's body, triggering a wave of butterflies that took flight in his stomach. He felt suddenly breathless, much like he had when Bucky had called him beautiful. They held eye contact for longer than was strictly necessary before Bucky averted his eyes.

In a somewhat desperate attempt to cover up what had just happened, Steve straightened out Bucky's tank top haphazardly before checking Bucky's stance one more time. Once he was certain that Bucky didn't look ridiculous, his eyes found Peggy, pleading.

"That'll do, right class?" Peggy asked everyone.

To Steve's relief, everyone agreed.

Steve all but rushed back to his seat, breathing a sigh of relief once he was behind the cover of his canvas.

"Alright Bucky," Peggy spoke up, "Choose a direction in which you would like to look and then keep your head still. Class, I would ask you to start with Bucky's head so that he will be free to move it as soon as possible."

* * *

Steve's easel and sketch paper didn't protect him from all the emotions. They didn't protect him from the fact that regardless of how much he tried, those same emotions translated onto the page while he drew. The pencil deciphered Steve emotions, adding them onto the page in the shadows underneath Bucky's cheekbones, in the dips and curves of Bucky's muscular arms, in the tufts of his brown hair and in the lines on Bucky's hands.

Bucky was free to look around again and every now and then, Steve and Bucky's eyes would meet. Steve was pretty sure that Bucky still had no clue who he was or what had happened but there _was _something in Bucky's eyes that hadn't been there before- uncertainty.

Steve tried to ignore it. He tried to pour himself into his work whilst pretending that he was drawing just another person and not Bucky. They had practiced things like that before- seeing things they drew as an assortment of lines instead of actual objects. It had been easy for Steve when he'd drawn a pencil or a fruit basket. With Bucky, it was almost impossible to do.

The brunette seemed to follow all of Steve's movements with his eyes, perking up a little every time Steve put down a pencil in favour of his eraser or a different pencil. The smudging tool was wedged in Steve's left hand while his right hand did the sketching.

The minutes ticked by painfully slowly and Steve was relieved when Peggy announced that they had only half an hour left of class. Steve would easily finish the sketch by then. He was used to having to draw quickly. He often spent his free time drawing still-life sketches of dogs and people in parks who weren't exactly in the habit of stopping until he could finish his rendition of them.

The last thing Steve drew, were Bucky's eyes. Although Steve was nowhere ready to admit it to himself, Bucky's eyes were Steve's favourite part of him. They held so many emotions, so many secrets that Steve, would the circumstances be less mortifying, would have wanted to find out about. Steve's mind wandered back to the science textbooks and the certificates he had discovered in Bucky's room.

If only for a moment, Steve wondered whether there was more to Bucky than most people thought.

"Alright! You're free to move again, Barnes." Peggy announced, undoing the spell that had settled upon the classroom.

The class laughed when Bucky made a show of stretching over-dramatically, as though he'd had to sit still for more than an hour. Even Steve, to his annoyance, caught himself smiling.

"Who of you managed to finish your work?" Peggy asked the class.

Everyone except Pietro and Sharon raised their hands.

"Seeing as you were the model for our work, would you like to have a look at the drawings?" Peggy asked Bucky.

"Sure, I'd love to!" Bucky grinned, following Peggy's lead to the first easel.

Steve crossed his arms defensively, watching Peggy and Bucky go from one artwork to the next.

It was like a déjà vu: yet again, Steve was sitting in front of his easel, dreading the moment someone would look at his sketching paper. This time though, it wasn't for lack of work he had done. He had done a lot of work- more than he usually would have done in class. Unwittingly, he had poured a lot into that sketch; so much so, that looking at it made Steve feel vulnerable. When he looked at the sketch, he could pick up on all the emotions that he associated with Bucky and he was afraid that he wasn't the only one that could see them.

All too soon, Steve found himself sandwiched between Peggy and Bucky with the latter peeking over his shoulder.

"Holy shit."

Steve bit his tongue, suffocating the urge to reprimand Bucky for his crude language. Instead, he shrunk in on himself self-consciously, waiting for the final verdict to be passed.

"It looks like you got some of your inspiration back, Steve." Peggy remarked appreciatively, "This is one of the best sketches I've seen you do."

Ironic, thought Steve; but the compliment made him blush nonetheless.

"Steve," Bucky sounded far too breathless, "This is amazing! How the hell did you do that in an hour?"

"Steve _is _one of my best students." Peggy bragged, nudging Steve with her elbow pointedly.

Steve bowed his head, biting down on his lip. "It's not that big of a deal, really." He tried to play it down.

Instead of the desired effect, Steve found himself being turned around on his stool to face Bucky.

Bucky's eyes were wide and more shockingly grey than Steve remembered them. He assumed it must be the lighting. If it was, Steve wanted them to stay in that very room for as long as possible.

That thought made Steve want to cringe.

Bucky's hand was yet to remove itself from Steve's shoulder and it didn't take long for its warmth to soak through Steve's white t-shirt.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself Steve. Give yourself some credit!" Bucky implored, "This is pretty damn amazing. I don't think I've ever seen a sketch this freaking good." Much to Steve's surprise, Bucky hesitated, looking a little uncertain. It was a strong contrast to his usual cocky demeanour.

Steve's face softened.

"This is gonna be a really weird question," Bucky mumbled, "but could I have a copy of this? It's my Ma's birthday soon and she's been nagging me about getting a good picture of myself that she can frame. This though… it beats any picture I could ever get made."

Steve's eyes widened. That tone. He recognized that tone! Despite himself, Steve felt himself relax. "Uh…" He paused, shooting a glance at the sketch before looking at Bucky again. "You really want it?"

"Sure do." Bucky assured him with a crooked grin.

"Then you can have it. The original, I mean." He blurted out, surprising not just Bucky, but himself as well.

"Are you serious?" Bucky lit up, "That's so swell of ya! But you gotta sign it first, alright? I want everyone to know that you're the one who drew this!"

Steve felt light-headed. Bucky looked so _happy_, and the knowledge that he had put that smile on Bucky's face was enough to get his heart racing.

Shakily, Steve picked up his B3 pencil, making sure that it was sharp enough before signing his name in the bottom left corner of the paper.

"I'll get the fixing spray and a roll to put it in." Peggy chipped in before rushing to the back of the class where the shelves stood.

Bucky watched Peggy for a moment before his eyes found Steve again. "Are you sure about this Steve?"

"Yeah." Steve assured him. He was finding it difficult to look straight at Bucky, finding it too flustering and simultaneously too painful. Bucky was looking _at _him and yet, he wasn't _seeing _him.

Steve wished that Bucky would see him.

"It's my Ma's birthday next week Wednesday." Bucky told Steve quietly, "The Avengers have a game the day after. I'm not sure if you go to our football games. If you happen to be there, come find me. That way I can tell you how much my Ma loved your art."

Steve wanted to decline Bucky's indirect offer. He wanted to tell Bucky that he'd rather not watch him play football, maybe go so far as to admit that he didn't even know any of the rules. He wanted to tell him that he had something incredibly important happening that Thursday. But he couldn't. Bucky looked too excited, far too _happy_, and Steve just couldn't find it in himself to let him down.

"Football? Yeah, I love football! I'll see you there."

* * *

There you have it guys! I hope you guys have an awesome week ahead of you!  
Feel free to let me know what you think of the chapter!  
See you again next week!


	6. Chapter 6

Woooow! What a hectic week! I'm absolutely exhausted and tomorrow's Monday again already! xD  
Still, I wanted to make sure that I got the next chapter uploaded for you guys before heading off to sleep!  
So here you have the next chapter to this little story here. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

"Here you are!" Clint breathed a sigh of relief. He shot a quick glance at the students around him before crawling underneath the bleachers at the side of the football field. Steve had the clear advantage with his size, having squeezed into the farthest corner beneath the stands, effectively hiding from the students milling about the campus.

"You never told me that football games weren't just football games at this college." Steve accused Clint weakly, leaning his head against one of the supporting beams.

"You never asked?" Clint shrugged, "It only ever happens when The Avengers play at home. I think it's pretty safe to say that our college endorses the football team wherever possible. I guess turning a football game into a sort of _open day _is one of the ways they do it. It's good advertisement."

"But there are so many _people _Clint." Steve muttered. He narrowed his blue eyes, peeking out between the wooden seats to glare at the passing students completely unaware of the two students seeking refuge in the shade of the stands.

"What are you worried about, Steve?" Clint inquired patiently, following Steve's glare with a far less hostile glance of his own, "I mean, it's pretty much the same as any day at college except this time people are dressed in football jerseys."

Steve sighed. Clint had a point, he knew he did. When it came down to it, the cheerful atmosphere hanging in the air didn't bother him. What did bother him, was that he had been sure that he'd be certain of Bucky's whereabouts the entire time. He had counted on being able to go talk to Bucky on his own terms and not when he accidentally ran into him at a festival-similar function spanning the entire college grounds.

"So, he's a pretty big deal, isn't he?" Clint asked offhandedly, shooting a nonchalant glance in Steve's direction.

Steve's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Who?"

"Well Barnes, obviously."

"Bucky isn't a big deal." Steve griped, crossing his arms across his chest defensively, "The only reason he's as popular as he is, is because he's the quarterback of The Avengers and happens to be good-looking."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Clint muttered, "But if he ain't a big deal to _you _then why the hell are we hiding underneath the bleachers when there's food and fun waiting for us? Why are you letting him influence you like this?"

"He ain't influencing me!" Steve snapped, squaring his shoulders angrily. He had that fire in his eyes again- the type of righteous anger that Clint had only ever seen in Steve, as though the emotion was one that only Steve Rogers could experience.

"Then what are we waiting for scaredy-cat?" Clint smirked.

"Screw you, Barton." Steve growled, grabbing his messenger bag and squeezing his way past Clint grumpily.

"Finally." Clint laughed, following Steve with a triumphant grin on his face.

The college campus was packed with students belonging to the college and also visitors, coming to watch the other football team play. The players, judging by the amount of green Steve was seeing, hailed from Hydra Academy, a school for alternative education. Even Steve had heard of them- they took their sports very seriously and were renowned for their ruthlessness.

The fragrance of hotdogs, corn-dogs and popcorn hung in the air the same way it always did at Coney Island. The mixture of smells reminded Steve of days spent at the funfair until the blistering summer heat became too much to bear and Clint and Steve would seek out some much-needed shade in the diner nearby. The diner- a quaint little place- made the best milkshakes Steve had ever had and their pancakes were to die for.

Steve let out a soundless sigh, having to ruefully admit that he _did _enjoy the atmosphere and the sunlight soaking into his skin was blissful!

Some of the college clubs had taken the opportunity to promote what they did- the science club had a stand, the debate club did and so did the acapella groups. While they walked, Steve listened to Clint mouth off about the importance of the archery club and why they didn't have a stand at an event as big as a college football match between two rivals.

Clint's dramatic monologue was interrupted by the words "Steve! Churros!" after which Steve was dragged to a small stand off to the side of the science building. There was a short line of students waiting for the potato dough delicacy. Steve couldn't help the smile that broke out across his pale face when he noticed the way Clint was excitedly rocking back and forth on his heels. It was so easy to make Clint happy, it was almost profound.

Content with waiting in line with his best friend, Steve eventually began looking around again, taking in all the different impressions and sounds around him eagerly. A group of students had found an open stretch of grass upon which they were devotedly playing a game of hacky sack. Not far from the hacky sack players, a group of girls had settled down on the lawn with snacks, chatting animatedly about something while giggling. A different group, comprised of only men, was sitting not too far away from the girls, playing a game of Magic: The Gathering, using a piece of cardboard upon which to place their cards.

"So… remind me again why we came here in the first place?"

Steve cringed, returning his gaze to his best friend. They had moved up two spaces in the line. "I told him that I loved football." Steve gritted out the words as if they were a plaster he wanted to pull of quickly, grateful when they were finally out and he no longer had them weighing on his tongue.

Clint hesitated, blinking confusedly for a moment before turning his head to give Steve his undivided attention. "You don't even know any of the rules, Steve."

"I _know _that, Clint." Steve retorted.

"So why would you-."

"I panicked!" Steve lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, painfully aware of how stupid he had been to tell Bucky that he felt anything but indifference towards the sport.

They were silent for a beat, Steve using the moment to compose himself whereas Clint was visibly lost in thought.

"So, what are you gonna do now, then?" Clint asked quietly, looking around to make sure that no one was listening in on their conversation.

Steve waited for Clint to order his churros before answering his question, watching the way Clint was ogling his snack. "All I need to do is survive today." Steve said, "The only reason he wants to talk to me today is because he feels like he owes me something after I gave him that drawing. He'll tell me what his mother thought of it and that'll be it- his imaginary debt will be payed and we'll both go on with our lives like nothing ever happened."

"Is that what you want?" Clint asked through a mouth full of churro.

Steve hesitated, averting his eyes before answering Clint quietly, saying, "All I want is for this to be over."

Clint didn't say anything to that and Steve was grateful for it. He didn't like having this discussion. He didn't like discussing Bucky Barnes.

He wanted to forget Bucky.

* * *

"So… uh…" Steve faltered, fiddling with the zip on his faded maroon hoodie, "What _are_ the rules?"

Clint stopped mid-stride, swallowing the large sip of root beer he had taken, in favour of grinning at Steve.

The latter rolled his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest in hopes that it would distract Clint from the light blush that was peppering Steve's cheeks.

Clint didn't answer immediately, instead, his sharp eyes looked around to find an unoccupied bench to sit down on.

They had circled back to the football field by then and Steve counted it as a win that they hadn't run into a certain football player yet. He'd seen others, like the number 58, Odinson- a towering beast of a man who looked like he could have come straight from a Norse legend; and Stark, the number 18 who had walked around with a cocky smirk, wearing a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses and a beautiful red-head on his arm.

Eventually, Steve and Clint settled down on the bottom bench of one of the white bleachers on the side of the football field.

Suddenly nervous, Steve began fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag, convincing himself that it was just that little bit too long and needed shortening.

"Have you ever watched a football game?" Clint started.

Steve shook his head dolefully. "Only baseball."

Smiling lightly, Clint proceeded to pour out all of his knowledge about football for his younger friend to soak up like a sponge.

Steve finally understood what the white yard lines on the field meant and what they were used for. He learned about how many players were on each team and what the differences were between offense and defense. While Clint went on, Steve lent into his friend comfortably, enjoying Clint's warmth while he listened. He felt content, feeling like he was safe where he was, listening to Clint talk instead of worrying about running into Bucky by mistake. The football field was empty except for the groundsmen preparing the field for the upcoming game. The stands were vacant apart from a young couple that had stolen away to the farthest bench to be alone. The side of the field that was closest to the gym was lined by benches that would soon be occupied by the reserve players for each team. Behind the benches, fenced off by a long white barricade, were the changing rooms. If Steve strained his eyes enough, he could see that the lights inside the building were burning already.

Was Bucky in there?

"Do you have any questions?" Clint's voice tore through Steve's thoughts and he blinked, looking away from the changing room windows. "  
Yeah." Steve paused, shaking his head, "No. I mean, I think I get it."

Steve could feel Clint's eyes on him, watching, analyzing him critically the way Clint always did before asking Steve-.

"Don't you want to get it off your chest, buddy?"

"Do you really want to talk about this here?" Steve grumbled, feeling every last trace of contentment dissipate the way a puddle of water would in the sun.

"If you're asking if I want to talk to my best pal about something that's clearly been bothering him for weeks, then hell yeah." Clint retorted, fixing Steve with a stubborn look, "And if not right now, then when? There's no-one around so where's the harm?"

"Where do you even get the idea that it's bothering me right now?" Steve snapped, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie defensively.

"I know you Steve." Clint muttered, pressing his shoulder into Steve's as if to underline his statement, "I know that you wish you hadn't told Barnes that you were going to come. I know that you've been paranoid all freaking day, worried that you might run into him by mistake. I know that you're panicking because you know next to nothing about football and are worried that he'll find out. I also know that you hate the way the two of you are talking like nothing happened between you guys at his party when clearly something did."

Steve opened his mouth to speak but found that he had no words at the ready. He had no snappy comeback for Clint's hypothesis because it was right- everything Clint had said had hit the nail on the head.

"Steve, you've been a mess ever since the damn party and you've been trying to pretend like you aren't."

"I'm fine." Steve insisted.

"Yeah no shit." Clint cocked his eyebrow at Steve as if the strained undertone in his voice wasn't enough to get his point across.

Steve winced. He wasn't used to seeing Clint this serious. Clint was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, always laughing and smiling. Right then he was frowning at Steve though, clenching his jaw as if Steve had personally offended him.

"Well what the hell do you expect me to do?" Steve asked Clint, his voice shaking with emotion, "I ain't like you Clint! I can't talk to Bucky the way you talk to Natasha! I can't not care about the fact that all my life, people have been picking on me, reminding me over and over again that I'm at the bottom of the damn food-chain while people like Bucky are at the very damn top! Yeah, it's getting to me and I'm sorry that I can't hide it as well as I wanted to!"

"So then go and talk to him!" Clint raised his voice slightly, "Get it over with so you can enjoy the rest of your day instead of walking around like you're expecting someone to come out of nowhere at any time and punch you in the face!"

Steve wanted to protest. He wanted to yell at Clint and tell him that he was being stupid, but he couldn't. Clint wasn't the one being stupid… Once again, Steve was at a loss for a good reason not to listen to Clint's advice. He _wanted _to feel better. He wanted to get it over with so that he could go home and get lost in a good novel or a TV-show on Netflix.

What was stopping him? Was it really that he was afraid of ruining the fragile social status that he had managed to weave together over the past years by being seen with Bucky? Was it really that he felt that he had no right to talk to Bucky in the first place? And if it wasn't any of the above, then what on earth was it?

"What will you do?" Steve asked Clint quietly, zipping up his hoodie.

"I think I'm gonna go talk to Nat, wish her luck for her cheerleading. The game's in under an hour, they're probably getting ready."

"Right." Steve nodded, managing a small smile at Clint's excitement, "You know… I really…"

"It's fine Steve." Clint draped an arm across Steve's shoulders, pulling him into a one-armed embrace, "I'm the reckless one that gets himself punched in the face for talking to the wrong people. You're the guy who saves my ass when I do."

"Sometimes I wish I could just… care less about the rules, like you do."

"You know, I feel like, if you have a good reason to, you'd fistfight the moon, even if everyone told you that it was the wrong thing to do." With that and an encouraging smile, Clint got up, righting his clothes before sauntering off int the direction of the girls' locker rooms.

"See you back here in a bit!" Clint called over his shoulder before rounding a corner and disappearing behind a building.

* * *

Steve walked along beside the low brick building adjacent to the football field, reading the signs drilled to the wall. He passed the storage room and the head-coach's office before he finally arrived at the entrance to the changing rooms for The Avengers. A fancy "A" was painted on a sign next to the door that read Changing Rooms. If Steve listened carefully, he could hear talking behind the metal door. He knew that there were two entrances to the changing rooms. The one he was standing in front of was more of an exit- the door through which the players would come when they made their way to the field for the game.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, Steve wondered what he had even planned to do once he got to the changing rooms. Bucky was definitely in there but how was he going to get to Bucky? He couldn't very well just waltz in there and ask to speak to Bucky. What if they were having a team moment? Or worse, what if they weren't dressed?

Bitterly, Steve even wondered whether Bucky even remembered that he was supposed to meet Steve to talk to him.

He probably didn't.

He credited his anger for his ability to bring his balled fist up to knock on the changing room door. Stubbornly, he braced himself for the worst, glaring at the grey door while he waited for it to open.

Steve startled, taking a step back when the door clicked, opening to reveal a tall, dark-skinned football player with bright eyes and a small smile. He was tall and lean but there was no hiding the muscles in his thighs, even with the loose tracksuit pants he was wearing. "Hey there, how can I help you?"

A furtive glance at his football jersey told Steve that his surname was Wilson. Steve's eyes widened. He remembered this guy. He had been one of the players sitting with Natasha at Bucky's party. He had also been one of the players involved in the conversation Steve had overheard.

Steve squared his shoulders, subconsciously trying to make himself look a little bigger before saying, "I'm here to see Bucky? Is he around?"

"Oh!" Wilson's eyes lit up and his smile widened, "He a friend of yours?"

Steve hesitated. "Uh… something like that, I guess?"

"Well, he did tell me to chase away any fangirls, but you don't seem to be one of them creepy girls so…" He paused, twisting around to call into the changing rooms, "Oi! Barnes! Get your handsome backside over here! There's a kid here that wants to see ya!"

Steve's mind tripped over the 'handsome backside' part before it caught up to the fact that Wilson had called him a kid. He frowned. Was he really going to get into this discussion with someone _again_? No. He definitely wasn't in the mood this time around. Besides, just then, Bucky arrived, pushing Wilson aside until he was standing in front of the slightly shorter male. "Steve!" Bucky grinned, "Good to see you could make it, pal!"

Steve's mind stuttered. Bucky must have been in the middle of getting ready because he was wearing black sport tights and an equally as tight black Underarmour shirt that hugged each and every curve and muscle that Bucky owned. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction as though he had just gotten out of bed. His eyes were a shocking grey again, turning lighter in the harsh sunlight.

Unmoved by Steve's lack of response, Bucky gave his teammate a quick nod before stepping out of the changing rooms and letting the door fall shut behind him. He drew in a long breath of air, smiling at the smells he perceived. "Wow. This is nice." Bucky said, leaning against the white railing that fenced in the football field. He looked up at the sky, his smile widening contently.

Steve couldn't help but follow the long line of Bucky's throat, up to his jawline. When Bucky lowered his head again, Steve blinked, forcing his eyes away from Bucky. "Sorry." Bucky muttered awkwardly, "I only just got here. I've been babysitting my sister all afternoon and my parents literally only got home an hour ago, I was worried that I wouldn't make it in time for the game. I haven't had a moment of downtime since I got here. So... this is nice; that's what I meant with that."

Steve perked up, his brain readily accepting a trivial topic to focus on instead of how attractive Bucky was. "You have a sister?" Steve blurted out, cringing when he noticed how high his voice was.

"Yeah." Bucky grinned, "She's a brat. Five years old and thinks she knows it all."

"Well, confidence seems to run in the family then." Steve muttered, immediately wishing he had said it quietly enough for Bucky to miss. The brunet had heard it though and the light frown he gave Steve in return was punishment enough. It wasn't a contemptuous frown, more of a confused one, as though he was trying to figure something out.

Steve ignored it as best as he knew how.

"Speaking of my family," Bucky changed the subject, "My Ma really, really loved that drawing. 'Told me that she had no idea Avengers Academy had such talented students."

"Well I had a good-looking model, so it wasn't that difficult." Again, his brain-to-mouth filter failed spectacularly. The moment the words had left his mouth, thousands of profanities rushed through Steve's mind and he bowed his head, letting some of those curse words slip out under his breath.

How could he have let something like that slip? How could he have told _Bucky Barnes _that he thought that he was attractive? Bucky's entire team was just a door away. All Bucky had to do was get his buddies and Steve was sure that Clint would find him behind the storage room in a puddle of his own vomit.

"Hey, Stevie… can I ask you something?"

Startled by not only the nickname but by the lack of disgust in Bucky's voice, Steve's head snapped up. Bucky had a small, unsure smile on his face and his eyes were wandering, looking anywhere but Steve as though Bucky was flustered or embarrassed.

"Uh… sure Buck."

Bucky blinked, his eyes finding Steve's. "It's kind of… something I haven't really spoken about _that _much. Well, not to anyone but my team…"

Steve drew in a quiet breath of air before holding it, feeling his heartbeat pick up traitorously.

"They're my family so… it was easy talking to them about it but… I guess… well…" Bucky pinched his eyes closing, looking to be composing himself before trying again, a defeated laugh echoing in his chest. "I hosted a party a few weeks back for my team as a kind of thank you. Other people from the college were invited of course and…" Bucky paused, licking his lips, "When I saw your sketch… You know how people say that art can make you feel something?"

Steve nodded numbly.

"Well I _felt _something when I looked at your art." He paused to let out an airy laugh, "I know it sounds kinda narcissistic seeing as it was a sketch of me. What I'm trying to say is… at the party, I met someone, and your drawing made me feel exactly what I felt after the party."

Steve felt the blood drain from his face. Unsure as to what to do with his hands, Steve shoved them into the front pockets of his jeans. He was trying to make his breathing sound normal, but he was on the verge of hyperventilating, desperately hoping that Bucky wouldn't notice.

Had Bucky figured it out? Had Steve's art given it away? Had Bucky really been able to pick up on all of the emotions that Steve had poured into his sketch?

"Oh God…" Bucky groaned, running a hand through his messy hair, "I feel really awkward asking you this. I've never asked anyone something like this before…"

"What is it?" Steve asked Bucky hoarsely, pushing his fingertips against the seams on the insides of his pockets anxiously, begging them to keep him grounded long enough to finish this conversation without making himself look like an idiot.

"You're literally the only one I would think of to ask this..." Bucky admitted, bowing his head when a light blush colored his cheeks.

Steve swallowed, trying his best not to want to memorize the bashful look on Bucky's face and the way the blush looked so perfect on his tan skin.

"I was too drunk at the party to remember who the person was. I think I might have a hunch about how I could make sure though."

"How would you do that?" Steve asked him breathlessly.

"Well that's where you come in Stevie. If I tell you what I remember, do you think you could draw her for me?"

Steve's face fell.  
His heart stuttered to a halt for a moment before beating on, more slowly now and as though it didn't really want to beat at all anymore. His stomach twisted, his body wanting to gag.

"What?" Steve whispered.

"I thought because you're such a great artist, you could help me draw a picture of her, so I know who to look for. I could show some people and see if they know her. She's gotta be from our college, otherwise she probably wouldn't have been at the party. Sam Wilson, the guy you just met at the door? He helped me come up with the plan."

Bucky looked so hopeful and so, so bloody oblivious.  
Steve balled his hands into tight fists, feeling the way the material of his jeans strained against his knuckles. His eyebrows furrowed, and he clenched his jaw. He knew he shouldn't try to reply to what Bucky had said. He knew that he should just walk away before his temper could do any irreparable damage. He _knew _what he should be doing and yet, he was rooted to the ground, his gaze intertwined with Bucky's.

"You know what I think you should do?" Steve asked Bucky tensely, "I think you should go to hell, James!"

It was so familiar- the way Bucky reached out his hand to stop Steve from leaving and the way Steve's small size enabled him to doge Bucky's hand. It was like a déjà vu, like a do over of the party, right down to the way Steve rushed off with tears rising into his eyes.

He ducked into a corridor, following it blindly for a while until a familiar person came into sight.

Clint was making his way along the same corridor, a spring in his step and a smile on his face. When he saw Steve though, his smile vanished, and he rushed over, catching Steve before the blond could sink to the ground.

"What happened?" Clint asked him desperately, trying to prop a limp Steve up against the wall.

"I can't!" Steve croaked, clinging onto Clint's purple t-shirt, "You were right!"

"I was right about what Steve? Hey! C'mon Steve, easy does it! Breathe!" Gently, Clint let Steve slide down to the floor before settling down next to him and grabbing a hold of Steve's messenger bag, "Where's your spray?"

"You were right," Steve ignored Clint's question, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, wiping away invisible tears, "You were right when you said that he's a big deal."

"Aw shit… I'm so sorry Steve." Clint let go of the bag in favour of gathering Steve into his arms, letting the petite artist push into his chest and pull at his shirt as much as he wanted, "I'm so sorry Steve." He repeated quietly, placing a hand at the back of Steve's head.

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

Poor baby :(

Also, I have an idea for a different Stucky fanfiction I want to start writing when I'm on vacation in March so I'm super excited for that!  
Feel free to let me know what you guys think! Thank you so much for sticking around! Have an AWESOME week and I'll see you next week Sunday!


	7. Chapter 7

Helloooo again!  
I hope you guys had an awesome week! Mine was pretty strenuous but I'll be on vacation soon! Just one more week to go and then I have two weeks off!  
In the meantime, have the next chapter! I really hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Clint watched Steve silently, observing the way his best friend folded a piece of A4 paper carefully. Steve's blue eyes were trained on the folding line, making sure to fold the paper perfectly straight. Once Steve was satisfied with his work, he slid the paper into one of his folders that he then quickly stowed away in his messenger bag. Steve was calm- too calm. Clint frowned. "So, you're really going through with this, huh?" He asked, his rough voice startling Steve out of thoughts.

"Looks like it."

"Are you sure about this?"

"I think so." Steve muttered, looking down at the bag dangling at his ankles. "What other choice do I have?" He added after a short pause.

"You could leave things at _go to hell _and move on with your life?" Clint offered, shrugging at Steve as if to say _It's a good plan, why not?_

Steve shook his head, pursing his lips for a moment contemplatively. "I can't. It wouldn't be fair on him, you know? None of this is his fault!"

"He had you in tears last night!" Clint insisted irately, "Enjoying his damn football game while you were on the verge of a full-blown asthma attack! _Because of him_. Last time I checked, that made things his fault! You're lucky I didn't go back there and introduce him to my fists!" As if to emphasize, Clint shoved his balled fists into the air, even if the motion looked somewhat comical, which was probably not what Clint was going for.

Steve blinked at Clint, shaking his head. "How is you ending up in hospital after being beaten up by over fourteen football players going to help with situation?" He replied solemnly, "Yes I was upset last night. I'm _still _upset but that doesn't matter right now. What matters is that in the end, all of this is basically my fault, so I have no right to be mad at him for anything he's doing now."

"Steve for the love of God, how is this any of your fault? If I remember correctly, _he _was the one who kissed _you_!"

"And I kissed him back!" Steve argued, so overcome with sheer determination that the thought of kissing Bucky didn't colour his cheeks pink the way it usually did, "I should have pushed him away. He was drunk, and I took advantage of that. I…" His voice drifted into a heavy sigh. He averted his eyes, bowing his head. His body was a picture of remorse and shame. He hadn't said it out loud. In fact, he hadn't really allowed himself to even formulate the thought until that very moment... Slumping his shoulders in resignation, he continued, "I wanted what he said to be true so badly that I tried to ignore the fact that he was drunk. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that he was probably too drunk to know what he was doing. I just really wanted someone to treat me the way he was treating me right there and then. It was so selfish and I'm ashamed of what I did. I have to fix this Clint." Steve lifted his eyes to give Clint a watery smile, "I have to."

Clint sighed, sitting back in his desk chair, considering Steve for a very long moment. "I'm not gonna change your mind, am I?"

"Probably not." Steve smiled, feigning an innocent look.

Clint threw his head back, looking up at the ceiling while he groaned dramatically, "I swear Steve, how do you always managed to get yourself into some sort of compromising situation?"

"This isn't compromising." Steve insisted.

"If he punches you it will be."

"I don't think he will." Steve pointed out, only half-convinced of what he was saying. There was no way of being sure of how Bucky would react- Steve didn't know him well enough for that. After all, he'd only known Bucky fleetingly for a few weeks.

"He'd better not lay a finger on you." Clint growled, "If he does, I'm gonna unleash everything I've learnt from Jackie Chan movies on the guy. He won't know what hit him!"

"Is this your attempt to comfort me?" Steve inquired, chuckling quietly when Clint grinned at him.

"Is it working?"

"Strangely enough, yes, it is." He admitted, pulling his messenger bag strap from one shoulder to the other so that the bag was hanging diagonally across his torso.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Clint asked, all of his previous mirth gone. His eyes were studying Steve worriedly, as if he was worried that this was the last time he was going to get to see his friend.

"I'm not sure." Steve admitted openly, looking out the narrow window above Clint's bed, "I guess there's only one way to really find out though, right?"

"Message me as soon as you've done it." Clint warned, "If you make me worry again, I'm gonna shoot you with my bow and arrow."

"I'll message you." Steve promised, rolling his eyes, "You're worse than my Ma used to be."

"Well _someone's _gotta look after your sorry ass."

Giving Clint a quick wave, Steve left the dorm room, laughing to himself.

* * *

Steve supressed the sense of déjà vu weighing on his mind, trudging on determinedly until he got to the stands. They had been packed just twenty-four hours in the past, with students dressed in yellow, cheering on the Avengers. Steve hadn't stayed for the football game, but he'd heard that The Avengers had sent Hydra back to their fancy tech college with their tails between their legs and a solid number of bruises to show for it.

Steve made a point of keeping his eyes from straying towards the field. He could hear the coach's whistle and the calls and prompts from the players. He knew that Bucky was right there, but he also knew that looking at Bucky would immediately break his resolve. He felt his body curl in on itself in an attempt to make him look unobtrusive, hoping that the team was too busy practicing to notice him skulking about.

As he scaled the stands, one unnaturally large step after the next, his mind's eye returned to the folded piece of paper he had been carrying with him all day. It was like the paper gave off some sort of radiation that Steve could sense. He was almost afraid that it would burn a hole through his bag and expose itself to the world for them to see. Once he'd reached the very top bench of the bleachers, slightly out of breath, Steve sat down gracelessly, biting his lip. The calm in Steve stirred then and he felt his stomach wriggle- the herald of a nervous stomach ache. With a heavy-hearted sigh, Steve got out his Star Wars novel. He'd read it before, but he loved it enough to know that it would distract him sufficiently until football practice was over. A quick glance at his phone told him that he had twenty minutes to go.

The sun was relentless, illuminating the white pages of Steve's paperback almost painfully. He had to squint, his light-coloured eyes susceptible to bright light. Reading became even more difficult when Steve realised that he kept reading the same paragraph over and over again. His mind wasn't with him; instead, it was on the football field. His ears listening for any sound coming from that direction and his mind would wander, forgetting what he had just read. He could hear their grunting, their yells, their laughter and their stampede-like footsteps as they ran their drills in the blistering late-afternoon sun. As curious as he was and as much as he wanted to catch a glimpse of Bucky, Steve was still worried about his resolve, afraid that he would get too scared to face Bucky after his embarrassing exit the day before. He'd already stayed up all night preparing for that impending moment and Steve would be damned if he made a run for it _again_. This had to end. There was no point in repressing what had happened, not just because Steve had deigned it impossible, but because this was no longer just about Steve. This was about Bucky too, who was still looking for the girl he believed to have met. This was about his school work and about Clint who had to watch Steve suffer. Pretending like nothing was wrong would be selfish of him and running away would be even worse. Steve was a lot of things, but a coward was definitely not one of them. He closed his eyes, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth to chew on it nervously. That little voice in his head was telling him that this was a bad idea. It was that same little voice that always told Steve to look away when he caught even the slightest glimpse of his own reflection. Steve tensed, physically trying to force that little voice in his mind to shut up.

"Steve?"

Steve's head snapped up just in time to see a football player break away from the rest of the team. There was a large number two printed on his training jersey, the white number encased by a thick black outline. His golden helmet glinted in the sun like a pearl, almost managing to conceal the dirt splattered all over its smooth surface. The player gave his stern-looking coach a quick wave before jogging up to the stands. Once at the base of the stands, he reached a hand up to his helmet, undoing the strap before grasping the wiring at the front of his helmet, hooking his fingers into it to pull the helmet off. Bucky squinted against the sun, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Stevie? That you?"

"Yeah." Steve replied before he could think better of it.

A smile spread across Bucky's face and he dropped his helmet before making the climb to where Steve was sitting. Unlike Steve, Bucky's movements were fluid and he reached the top with the sort of ease only an athlete had. Bucky's shoulders were covered by padding, making them look a lot broader than they were. His training jersey stretched across the padding on his chest and shoulders precariously, jagged lines outlining the edges of the pads. His neck and face were covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt, shimmering in the sunlight. He was breathing heavily.

"Aren't you hot in all of that stuff?" Steve mumbled for the sake of having something to say, shoving at the shoulder pad on Bucky's left shoulder.

"You have no idea!" Bucky moaned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his dirt-covered hand, "I tried to talk Coach into letting us train shirtless, told him we can take the hits, but no, of course we need the damn padding, right?"

Steve was endlessly grateful to Bucky's coach for having chosen the padding. If Steve was in this situation with a shirtless Bucky, he might have imploded.

The conversation faltered for a second until Bucky turned to Steve, a look of sheer determination written all over his sweaty face, "Listen, Stevie, about yesterday. If I said or did anything that upset you, m'sorry. I didn't mean to."

"You didn't do anything wrong." Steve assured him timidly, "I'm actually surprised that you still wanna talk to me after I told you to go to hell."

"It ain't the first time someone's said that to me." Bucky smirked wryly, "Besides, you're the one who came here..." He paused, watching the way Steve ducked his head before adding, "What got you so upset though?"

"It's kind of a long story. I don't want to keep you." He motioned to Bucky's team that was already back at work on the field below.

"I couldn't care less 'bout that right now." Bucky pressed on insistently, "Start from the beginning. I ain't in no hurry."

"But-."

"M'serious Stevie!" Bucky insisted.

"Okay." Steve nodded lightly. His heart was racing, and his breathing was unsteady. He didn't want to have this conversation. While talking to Clint, Steve may have played down the fact that Bucky might actually punch him, but faced with Bucky now, the possibility was becoming more real, more immediate. He was pretty sure that Bucky wouldn't, but pretty certain wasn't one hundred percent certain- it was hopeful at best. He was still worried, still scared.

"Go on" Bucky encouraged him, throwing his left leg over the bench so that he was facing Steve completely now, resting his hands on the bench between Steve's thigh and his own lap. With Bucky so close, Steve could smell the last hints of his deodorant mixed in with the smell of sweat, grass and soil. The calm in Steve was gone now. In it's place, was a wild uncertainty that made Steve's entire body tremble. Against all odds, Steve's mind was still looking for a good reason to call this whole thing off. This had to be one of the most mortifying moments of his life.

Clenching his jaw, Steve forced his body to move. His trembling hand reached for his messenger bag and undid the latch. He pulled out his black folder, once again acutely aware of that piece of paper safely tucked away there.

Steve could feel Bucky's gaze on him. It wasn't angry or protruding, just gently curious. It may have calmed him down were the circumstances slightly different. Steve fumbled with the folder for a moment clumsily, cursing under his breath until he finally managed to retrieve the piece of paper.

Different to Steve's suspicion, the paper didn't glow or burn when he touched it. It was just an ordinary piece of paper, carefully folded through the middle to hide its content.

Every atom in Steve's body protested against his movements when he turned to hand it to Bucky. The brunet wiped his hands off on his black shorts before reaching for the paper tentatively. Then, once he'd successfully retrieved the paper from Steve, his stormy blue eyes lifted to look at the latter quizzically. Bucky's eyes were wide and innocent, curious and worried all at the same time. It was almost too overwhelming to look at, so Steve averted his eyes, shoving both of his hands underneath his thighs to hold them still. "Just… look at it." Steve begged, managing to sound more moody than nervous. He counted it as a partial win.

Bucky hesitated for a grueling moment before Steve could hear him unfold the paper slowly. He heard the way Bucky's breath got caught in his throat and he heard the crinkling of the paper under Bucky's contracting grasp.

"What the hell is this?" Bucky's voice was almost inaudible, a quiet whisper in the gentle breeze that whistled around them, ruffling both Steve and Bucky's hair.

"You asked me to draw her, so I did." Steve rasped, shocked by how strained his voice sounded.

"Yes, Steve I can see that, but how did you know what she looks like?" Bucky placed the drawing down carefully before turning his undivided attention to Steve. When Steve didn't look at him, Bucky placed a hand on Steve's shoulder.

The contact made Steve flinch.

"Steve."

"What?" Slowly, Steve turned to look at Bucky, schooling his features into a look of indifference.

"In that picture she's wearing the shirt I lent her. The week after the party, one of my pals found it lying in the passageway outside the gym. How did you know what the shirt I gave her looked like? How do you know what _she_ looks like?" There was a careful urgency to Bucky's voice that seemed so unlike Bucky. It didn't suit him; not the kind-hearted, strong man Steve had gotten to know him as. He looked too vulnerable like that, as though he wouldn't even try to defend himself if Steve were to pull out a knife to strike.

"Please don't make me say it, Buck." Steve whispered, feeling his façade crumble under the weight of Bucky's beseeching gaze.

"Please Steve, you gotta tell me."

Steve felt a whine build at the back of his throat, so he coughed instead, pinching his eyes closed for a long moment before forcing himself to look at Bucky again.

Bucky shifted, looking frustrated. "I ain't smart Steve. You gotta-."

"You're a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for." Steve disagreed firmly, the hint of an ironic laugh floating through his words while he spoke, "I saw all your science books and all those fancy certificates you got hanging over your bed, James." He knew, once he'd uttered those words, that there was no going back. He ducked his head, peering at Bucky through his eyelashes, terrified of Bucky's impending reaction.

Bucky's brows furrowed for the briefest of seconds before his eyes widened and he turned to grab the picture again frantically. Licking his lips nervously, he held it up next to Steve's face, comparing the two. Steve watched with bated breath as Bucky's trembling eyes darted between him and the picture he had drawn- a girl that looked like Steve.

Then, when the puzzle pieces fell into place, Bucky's face emptied, the emotion seeping from his features in the same way the blood seemed to.

"Oh fuck." He muttered, lowering the picture slowly.

Steve clenched his hands into fists, beneath his thighs, focusing on the way his knuckles dug into his muscles. Breathing out slowly, he ducked his head the rest of the way until he could no longer see Bucky's face.

"Steve…. Did we…?"

"Yeah." The blond nodded dismally.

"I… I think I'm kinda in shock right now. Is that a thing? Does that happen?"  
Steve raised his head slowly. Bucky was staring at Steve's drawing blankly, his eyes still wide with surprise, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. If Steve looked carefully, he could see the paper tremble in Bucky's grasp.

"I needed to apologize to you." Steve started, relieved to find that his voice was somewhat steady, "I made a mistake. I knew that you were drunk but the things you were saying… no one says those things to me, and I guess it just caught me off guard and I got carried away. I didn't intend to take advantage of your state and I-."

"Fuck Steve!" Bucky exclaimed, stopping Steve in his tracks, "Are you kidding me?"

Steve flinched, ducking his head. "I'm sorry!" He blurted out, "I'm so sorry Buck!"

"No!" Bucky shook his head vehemently, "Shit Steve, I ain't gonna hit you!"

Steve bowed his head further, his torso curling in on itself pitifully. He was normally so good at taking hits, so good at pretending to be so much bigger than he was. He wasn't timid, he was stubborn and outspoken, bold and sometimes brash. Not with Bucky though. He couldn't be any of that with Bucky. It was like, with Bucky, in that very moment, Steve had no choice but to be vulnerable.

"If you wanted to hit me, it would be alright. I messed up." Steve heard himself say.

"Don't do that!" Bucky snapped, "It ain't all your fault Stevie!"

Steve's head snapped up and his eyes found Bucky's immediately. Steve was surprised to find that Bucky wasn't angry. He looked upset, yes, but also concerned, his features still soft.

"I _knew_!" Bucky mumbled, almost as if he was talking to himself, "I knew there was something about you… I just didn't know what." He was distraught, rubbing his filthy hands over his face as though he was trying to make sure that he was really awake.

"It's okay." Steve assured him shakily.

Bucky shook his head. "You came to return the shirt, right?"

"Yeah."

"And then you overheard me talking to my pals about that girl that I met at the party?"

Weakly, Steve nodded.

Bucky whined, low and throaty, returning his hands to his face, this time to cover it. "And out of all the people I could have asked, I ask _you _to draw… Steve I'm so _sorry_!"

"Buck, you were drunk! You didn't know any better!"

"No!" Bucky raised his voice slightly, frowning when he saw Steve flinch, "Being drunk is never an excuse! It takes two Steve! We both screwed up! Unlike me though, you've been sufferin' these past weeks and I didn't know. I upset you with the way I've been acting and at the very least, I gotta apologize to ya for that!"

"Bucky you're straight!" Steve insisted weakly, not quite sure where those words had come from. If there was even the slightest inkling of hope residing in Steve that Bucky would oppose of that statement, he smothered if before Bucky could.

"I know that Stevie; God I know that, but I still kissed you and that wasn't right of me! _Because _I'm straight and you're not."

Steve swallowed. He would have preferred if Bucky had punched him; it probably would have hurt less than what Bucky was saying and worse- _how _he was saying it. His sympathy and compassion made things so much worse for Steve. He couldn't be mad at Bucky anymore and he couldn't hate him. Instead, he felt his affection for Bucky grow, spreading through Steve like poison. Tears rose into his eyes and he turned his head away, hoping it would hide the shimmer his eyes had gained.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" Bucky asked Steve quietly after a long moment of deafening, heavy silence.

Steve huffed out a silent laugh. He already had. "Do you know Natasha Romanoff?"

Bucky perked up, tilting his head curiously. "Yeah, sure. She's one of my best friends."

"Is she single?"

"Sure is. Why d'you ask Stevie?"

"Uh…" Steve ran a hand through his hair awkwardly, laughing at how nervous he was, "I have a friend, Clint, he really likes her. Could you put in a good word for him?"

Unbeknownst to Steve, who was stilling looking anywhere but Bucky, the latter smiled at him, "I can do that. Yeah, sure."

"If you want to, you can meet him first." Steve offered.

Bucky's smile broadened, and he shook his head. "If you're willing to vouch for him, I'm pretty sure he's gotta be a decent guy."

That made Steve look at him again, confusion momentarily trumping the stifling sadness weighing on him like a ton of bricks.

Bucky laughed. "C'mon Steve! You're literally the nicest guy that I know. If you're friends with someone, they gotta be a good person."

"How do you know I'm nice?" Steve challenged sardonically, cocking an eyebrow at Bucky.

"Well shit… you really don't get it, do ya?"

"Get what?"

"Remember that gal in your art class? The blond one with the pretty smile?"

"You mean Sharon?" Steve frowned, wondering where Bucky was going with this.

"If that's what she's called." Bucky shrugged, "What do you think she would have done in your place if I had taken her up to my room at my party?"

Steve flushed at the thought, stuttering out a quiet, "Probably not stopped you."

Bucky snapped his fingers. "Exactly! Ten points for Gryffindor!"

Steve was almost too busy tripping over the Harry Potter reference to grasp what Bucky was trying to convey. Almost. He nodded his understanding, giving Bucky a self-deprecating shrug of his bony shoulders. "My Ma just didn't raise me like that." He offered Bucky a weak explanation, feeling like he had to say _something. _

"Good to know there are still some decent people out there." Bucky hummed, watching his team scurry across the field, performing one of the countless running drills.

"Buck." Steve paused, waiting for Bucky to look at him before continuing, "I don't want you to feel like you owe me anything. All I wanted was to come clean about what happened so that both of us can, well, move on."

"Thanks Stevie." Bucky smiled at him crookedly, "Could I ask you a favour though?"

"Sure, anything." Steve cringed. Was that too much?

Bucky looked reluctant, heaving a sigh before saying, "Could this whole thing stay between us? I wouldn't hear the end of it if anyone found out about it. I'm not homophobic, so don't go thinking like that or anythin'- I just don't want people talking shit."

Steve nodded, ignoring the way his stomach clenched. "I wasn't planning on broadcasting it to the whole school if that's what you were worried about." Steve forced himself to smile, "The only person who knows is my best friend Clint but he's as silent as a grave if I ask him to be."

"Thanks Stevie." Bucky's face softened, "I'm sorry that we got off on such a… weird… foot. I swear, I ain't gonna drink like that ever again."

"Yeah," Steve huffed, "Next time you might not be so lucky with whom you take up to your room." As soon as he'd said it, Steve wanted to shove his foot into his mouth.

Bucky surprised Steve yet again by laughing. It was warm, loud and genuine and Steve had to regretfully admit that he loved that laugh.

"Shit Steve. I had no idea you could be such a punk." Bucky cackled, roping Steve into a one-armed embrace.

Bucky's shoulder pad dug into Steve's bone, but he ignored it, too flustered by Bucky's action to care much about the shoulder pad potentially severing his shoulder from his torso.

After a moment of content silence, Bucky released Steve, turning to smile at the shorter student. "So how about we start this over?" He suggested cheerfully, holding out his hand for Steve, "My name is James Barnes, but everyone just call me Bucky. I'm a Natural Sciences major and I also happen to play football."

Forcing a smile, Steve took Bucky's hand, trying to ignore the way his cheeks warmed up at the touch of Bucky's skin against his. "My name is Steve Rogers. I'm an Art Studies major, and I suck at every and any sport you can think of and before yesterday, I didn't know the first thing about football."

"But you're incredible at art." Bucky pointed out with a crooked smirk, "It's great to meet you Stevie."

"It's nice to meet you too, Buck." _And I think I really, really like you…_

But Steve had been right all along- guys like Bucky didn't go for guys like Steve, they went for pretty girls with long blond hair and blue eyes.

* * *

There you go!  
I really hope you enjoyed it!  
I'll be back next week with the next chapter! Feel free to leave a review for me if you like!  
Thanks for stopping by!


	8. Chapter 8

Hey there everyone! Sorry for the break I took! With everything going on in the world today, everything was a little hectic my side with figuring out what's happening with work and school. But! I am back! I hope you are all staying safe!

Have another chapter to help fight the boredom of quarantine! It's a bit of a filler chapter, but I still hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Chapter 8

Bucky was aching in all sorts of places. The sun had undoubtedly burnt him, judging by the heat simmering beneath his eyes, and he felt like the immeasurable amount of dirt he was covered in, weighed him down. His sports clothes reeked, and the oversized shirt hung around his shoulders now that the padding had _finally _been removed from his sweating body.

As soon as he'd closed the front door, he let out a sigh, giving himself a moment to enjoy the cool air inside his air-conditioned home. He was mindful to take off his shoes at the entrance, knowing that his mother would have his head if he stomped through the house with his studs, never mind the amount of dirt those things hung onto until the worst of times.

"Bucky's home!"

Bucky perked up immediately, craning his neck to look up at the second floor where his younger sister could just barely look over the balustrade. Just like Bucky, she took after their mother- bright ice-blue eyes and thick brown hair.

Bucky grinned. "Sure am, Becca! Did ya miss me?"

Squealing, the brown-haired girl came charging down the stairs under the watchful gaze of her older brother who was ready to jump should she stumble. As soon as he was in reach, her little arms grasped for him, tugging at his shorts until she could wrap her arms around his leg, snuggling up to him affectionately.

"You did miss me!" Bucky remarked, bending down to give her a hug.

She grinned for a moment before her face contorted and she pinched her nose with her fingers, looking disgusted. "You stink!"

"Well yeah," Bucky laughed, "I was at training today." He ran his hand over her hair gently before getting up, stretching his aching back as he did, "Where's Ma?"

"She's in the kitchen. I think she's making pie, but she won't let me see." Rebecca puffed up her cheeks indignantly, placing her small hands on her hips.

"That's because you always want to _touch._" Bucky pointed out with a laugh, especially when Becca hurled a scandalized look his way, "I'm sure she'll be done soon. Why don't you go tell her that I'm home while I take a shower?"

"Will you play with me later?" She asked, giving him a smug look.

It worried Bucky that his five-year old sister knew what blackmailing was. "I ain't letting you dress me up like one of your dolls if that's what you're gettin' at. It's pretty hot today though so if ya want, we can go for a swim a little later."

Bucky sold his point well because Becca nodded fervently before spinning on her heel and careening down the passageway, calling out for her mother while she did.

"I wonder if she'd give me some of that energy if I asked nicely." Bucky mumbled, dragging himself up the stairs with a loud, self-pitying sigh.

The second he opened his bedroom door, his eyes involuntarily flicked to the certificates he had hanging above his bed. The memories that had initially been distorted and puzzling were now clear as day. He no longer thought of a girl when he thought about that small figure standing in the middle of his room, looking like it didn't quite know where to go. Now that he knew that Steve had been the one he'd brought up to his room, it was all he could think about. The girl in his memory had vanished, replaced by a clear recollection of what had happened that night. Steve had been the one to glare at him when Bucky had spilt his beer on him. Steve had been the one who'd asked him to turn around while he put on the new shirt. Steve had been the one lying on Bucky's bed while-.

Bucky shook his head, unhinging his thoughts before they could run away with him. He felt uncomfortable, antsy. Before delving into a full analysis as to why he was feeling so uneasy, he decided to blame it on the fact that he was covered in a thick layer of sweat and dirt that had hardened by then, forming itchy patches on his tanned skin.

Dropping his duffle bag beside the door, he grabbed a fresh pair of boxers, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, ready to take a long shower. Checking that he had everything that he needed, he turned his back on his room and the memories before making his way to the bathroom opposite to his bedroom.

Instead of heading for the shower, Bucky felt drawn to the large bathtub instead. With every move he made, he could feel his muscles ache and he hoped that a bath would reduce his discomfort. The only times Bucky ever really took baths was when he was sick. A moment of introspection brought to light that Bucky did in fact, feel a little off kilter.

For a solid minute, all he did was watch the water run in through the waterfall tap. The tap's sleek silver finish glinted a little in the bright LED lights installed in the ceiling overhead. The indirect lighting surrounding the edge of the bathtub lit up the dials used to control the water temperature and the jet streams the bath was equipped with.

While the bathtub continued to fill steadily, Bucky rid himself of his clothes, throwing them into a corner before stepping into the shower to wash off the majority of the dirt he was coated in. He wasn't vain, but he also didn't necessarily enjoy bathing in a brew of mud and grass.

Once he was satisfied, he shook off as much of the water as possible before rushing for the bathtub, a cold shiver crawling up his spine at the cold draft.

The hot water was heavenly.

Bucky let himself sink deeper into the water until only the top half of his face was sticking out, his nose dutifully sucking in the air he needed, each exhale causing ripples on the water's surface. He worked his way through his body, stretching each of his muscles slowly to allow them the chance to relax. Some movements made him cringe, but it didn't take the warm water long to soak into his muscles, calming them right down again.

It was unusual for him to be so sore. Maybe it was the game he'd played the night before. Hydra wasn't exactly known to be an easy opponent- not because they were very good, but because they were incredibly aggressive and played unfair. After the match, Bucky's team had spent at least ten minutes comparing bruises. Bucky had definitely _felt _those bruises during practice and hence, he was grateful for an excuse to skip out of training for once. He let out a long sigh, watching the way his breath formed bubbles underwater that then rushed to the surface.

Steve.

He felt like a complete idiot! Not only had he gotten drunk at his own party, but he had kissed a _guy _on his _bed_? How had that even happened? How could Bucky ever have thought that that was a good idea? Cringing, he recalled that he had wanted to do more than jusft kiss Steve. The thought made his stomach jump. The thoughts he'd had that night _felt_ like someone else's thoughts and yet they _sounded _like his.

Clenching his jaw, he let the rest of him sink into the water. He lifted his hands, running his fingers through his hair until all the knots were worked out. He held his breath as long as he could, wishing that the lack of oxygen would slow down his racing thoughts.

That had been the first time he'd ever kissed a man and to make things worse, that man just happened to be one of the kindest people Bucky had ever met. Steve didn't deserve any of what had happened! He deserved to be together with a man who loved him, not being kissed at a party by a drunk, straight man who saw nothing more than a friend in Steve.

Bucky groaned, listening to the way the sound echoed through the water surrounding him.

He wished that he would never have to come up for air again.

* * *

Back in his room and feeling a little better, Bucky let himself fall onto his bed with a grunt. He fished his phone out of his duffle bag, frowning when he saw that even his phone had some dirt on it. He forced his fingernail into the ridge surrounding the screen, removing as much of the soil as he could before switching on the screen.

He had one new message from Sam, one missed call from the girl he had gone on a date with the week before his party and a few new Facebook notifications. He ignored the text from the girl and Facebook, answering Sam instead.

"Wasn't the guy who you hung out with during practice today the same kid that came to wish you luck before the game?"

Bucky glared at the screen. Trust his best friend to poke his nose into the worst of topics.

"He ain't a kid." Bucky typed out deftly, "And yeah, that was him. What of it?"

Once the message was sent off, Bucky scrolled through his WhatsApp chats until he found Natasha's chat window. She had changed her profile picture. Curiously, he tapped on the picture icon, waiting patiently for the picture to show. Bucky smiled. It was a photo taken at the game the night before. She was standing in line with Pepper, Shuri and a couple of others, grinning at the camera, their pompoms hidden behind their backs. It was a nice photo.

"Hey Nat, did you by any chance run into a blond guy yesterday?" Bucky wrote.

Not moments later, Natasha replied. "I run into a lot of people James, telling me that one of them is a blond guy isn't really narrowing it down."

Bucky sighed. She had a point… "I'm talking about Clint. Clint… something. I don't know his second name."

"Oh yeah! I ran into him! He came to talk to me before the game. Why do you ask?"

Bucky hesitated, wrestling with the words in his mind until they formed a somewhat coherent sentence. "What do you think of him?"

While he waited, he got a reply from Sam, saying, "I was just curious. Haven't seen him around before. You don't really hang out with non-athletes."

Bucky had to begrudgingly admit that Sam wasn't wrong. It wasn't that Bucky thought that non-athletes were lame. He had a lot of acquaintances in his major, some he even did homework with sometimes. But actual hanging out? He only ever did that with the cheerleaders and his football team. He couldn't pinpoint a distinct reason as to why, and he settled on it being a coincidence. He spent a lot of time practicing with his team. Wasn't it natural to become good friends with those you spent most of your time with?

Bucky zoned back in when he received a message from Natasha, his phone buzzing in his hands twice before stilling.

"He's not really the type of guy I hang out with normally. He's kind of cute though- the dorky kind of funny. He doesn't get tongue-tied when he talks to me. I like that."

Bucky grinned. Of course Natasha would like a guy that wasn't like all the rest. The majority of the men in her life were either too intimidated by her to get a decent sentence out around her they were the kind of creeps that tried to get her into bed right off the bat. She found both incredibly unattractive.

"Besides," another message followed from Natasha, "He asked me what my favourite colour was yesterday."

Bucky burst out laughing, dropping his head onto his mattress and holding his phone up above his face, still grinning at the screen. "What are you waiting for? I heard he's a catch." Bucky wrote.

"What if he's not into me?" She replied only moments later.

"Oh shit Nat! Since when are you so self-conscious?"

"Again James- not the type of guy I usually deal with. How am I supposed to know how to act around him?"

"Get to know him?" Bucky sent off the message, contemplating for a moment before adding, "Tell him all about your favourite colour, the creepy movies you like to watch or the fact that you are obsessed with strawberry cheesecake."

"If you tell anyone about my cheesecake obsession, I will kill you!" She warned before sending another text, "Fine. I guess I can try the talking thing."

Bucky chuckled, sending her a quick "Great! You'd better let me know how it goes, Nat!" before putting his phone back on standby.

As soon as his hands were empty, his mind seemed to fill up with thoughts again. Desperate to keep his mind silent, he retrieved his duffel bag from where it had been dumped next to the door. He began sorting out his clothes, preparing to banish all the sweaty clothes into the wash hamper in his walk-in cupboard.

Once the bag was empty, he pulled out his notepad, meaning to sort the day's notes into their respective folders. That is, until a certain piece of paper slipped out from between his handwritten notes. Scrambling a little, he dropped his folder and caught the paper instead, smoothing his hand over it to make sure it had no creases in it.

Bucky found it endearing that Steve had obviously put so much effort into folding the paper perfectly straight.

He remained crouching on the floor for a brief moment, doing nothing but stare at the folded paper. There were small lines in the paper and Bucky wondered where they had come from. Did sketching paper usually have those fine little lines? Didn't they bother Steve when he drew?

When his knees started to object, Bucky moved to sit on the bed instead, unfolding the paper in the process. Biting his lip gently, he held the drawing up to look at it in good lighting.

It was almost frightening how accurate Steve was with his interpretation of what he thought Bucky had pictured. The football player followed the lines with his eyes, trying to picture what the drawing had looked like while it was still being drawn. He wondered where Steve had started. What had Steve thought to be the most important part of her face? Had he looked in the mirror a lot while drawing or didn't he have to? Bucky assumed that Steve had a photographic memory, but he also knew that the strength of a memory like that varied from one person to the next. He wanted to believe that Steve's ability to remember was exceptional, equal to the quality of his artwork.

The woman Steve had put to paper was beautiful. She had large expressive eyes and long eyelashes that fanned her high cheekbones. Her long blond hair fell down to her shoulders in waves. Her hair reminded Bucky of that Sharon girl's hair and he wondered whether Steve had taken her hair as inspiration. Her lips bent awkwardly, like she wasn't sure whether to smile or not. It was a look that reminded Bucky of Steve- it was the exact way Steve had looked at him after he'd put on the shirt. _His_ shirt. In fact, the drawing showed the exact moment that Bucky had turned around again after Steve had told him he'd finished changing. The bashful set of his shoulders, the way he jutted out his chin defensively, the gentle line between his eyebrows…

Bucky folded the paper abruptly. He looked around his room, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with it. He didn't want to throw it away- Steve had put so much work into the drawing, it wouldn't be right.

Cautiously, Bucky slid the small rectangle underneath the picture frame on his nightstand, careful as not to bend the edges. His eyes went from the piece of sketching paper to the photo in the frame. It was a picture taken on Bucky's nineteenth birthday. His little sister was holding his hand while his father stood to his right with a hand on his shoulder. His mother was grasping onto his free arm, squeezing her face against his adoringly.

"Bucky?"

Bucky looked up, turning to see his sister barge into his room, closed bedroom door be damned. She was already dressed in her purple unicorn swimming costume, bouncing up and down excitedly. "You promised!"

"I did." Bucky smiled, "Let me get changed then, alright? I'll be down in five."

"Okay!" She giggled, doing a one-eighty turn and sprinting out of his room.

"Careful down the stairs Rebecca!" Bucky called after her sternly, sighing when he got no reply, "She's gonna break her neck one of these days." He muttered before getting up and heading back to his walk-in cupboard. Once the cupboard was open, he looked over his shoulder, feeling a little as though he was being watched, but there was no one there.

Clenching his jaw, he marched back to his nightstand and retrieved the sketch from underneath the picture frame. His free hand found the drawer in his nightstand and pulled it open. He pushed aside all the things he had haphazardly stuffed into the drawer, shoving the sketch into the very bottom of the wooden drawer. He spread the contents of the drawer again until he could no longer see the paper, breathing out only once he'd closed the drawer again.

* * *

So my schedule is a bit chaotic at the moment due to the lack of routine thanks to the quarantine, but I'll try to make sure I post at least once a week!  
Feel free to leave a review! And thank you so much for stopping by!


	9. Chapter 9

It's happening! So after a hiatus due to complete and utter writer's block that I choose to blame completely on being stuck at home during the pandemic (but seriously guys, stay home and keep yourselves and other people safe), I am finally back! I finally found my muse again and am more determined than ever to continue this fanfic that honestly, deserves to be told and to find a fitting end!

Also, I want to get more practice in when it comes to writing, so if you have any ideas for shorts or fanfictions concerning Bucky and Steve- please, please inbox me and let me know! I'd love to collect some prompts!

So now, without any more announcements and delays: the next chapter! Please do enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Duck out left, left hook, right hook, left straight… then?

Bucky grunted when a boxing glove came into hard contact with his face. He stumbled, only barely managing to steady himself before falling against the ring's ropes. He blinked perplexedly, trying to figure out where his guard had gone and where on earth his mind was. He straightened up, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

"You alright, Barnes?" T-Challa asked, closing the small distance in between the two of them to rest his boxing glove against the side of Bucky's head.

Bucky nodded numbly, appreciating the grounding touch against his temple. "I just lost it for a sec." He muttered, shooting T-Challa an apologetic look.

"Duck left, left hook, right hook, left straight then dodge right, right uppercut and left hook." T-Challa gave him a toothy grin then, "It's not like you to forget your combinations."

"It's not like you to freeze up and yet you still did talking to that girl you like." Bucky shot back, still distraught but able to feign a smile of his own.

"So, is there someone you like, then?" T-Challa countered gently, his deep voice coated by a rich African accent.

Bucky shook his head. "Nothing like that."

"Something's got you distracted though. My sister told me you were spacing out during your Chem lesson on Friday as well."

"It's nice to know that the two of you talk about me." Bucky joked half-heartedly, "It's flattering and only slightly creepy."

"Have you considered talking to your Sam friend about it?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "There's nothing bothering me." He insisted.

"But there is, my friend." T-Challa insisted, a compassionate look in his deep chocolate eyes, "It is best to talk to someone you trust about your feelings before they can get the better of you. It is not good for the soul to bottle things up. Emotions are meant to be shared, not hidden."

"Does that come from some sort of Wakandan proverb or something?" Bucky asked, somewhat sarcastically.

T-Challa, as per usual, didn't take offense. Instead, he laughed, shaking his head. "Not from Wakanda. But there are a lot of African fables and proverbs that talk about the importance of emotions."

"It was a rhetorical question." Bucky pointed-out, grinning when T-Challa waved his hand as if to say '_touché_'.

After a short pause, T-Challa spoke up again. "Do you want to try the combinations again?"

Bucky shook his head, rolling his aching shoulders to loosen his muscles. "I'm just not in it today." He admitted sullenly, "It's probably better to call it a day. I said that I was going to meet Sam for lunch anyway. He's probably already staring at the clock, counting down the minutes before he gets to eat."

T-Challa nodded, knocking his black boxing glove against Bucky's in a boxer's handshake. "That will be a good opportunity to talk to him."

"I told you, there's nothing bothering me!"

Bucky's tense retort made T-Challa pause, considering Bucky for a punishingly long moment before speaking up. "Your emotions do not only have an influence on you. They can impact your teammates as well. Here you are unfocused." He pointed at the boxing hall, "And you will be unfocused on the field as well."

Bucky bristled. His shoulders tensed, the muscles there protesting under the strain. He wanted to argue; he wanted to insist that his emotions were none of anyone's business, that they had nothing to do with football. He couldn't though because he knew, deep down, that T-Challa was right. "Fine." Bucky groused, "I'll freaking talk to Sam."

The other man smiled triumphantly. "I will see you next Saturday, then?"

"Same time, same place." Bucky replied, giving T-Challa a quick nod before excusing himself.

He was on edge; ready to punch something. He knew it would probably be better to stay and let out his frustration on a boxing bag, but he couldn't bear to be in the hall anymore. He was upset, the same way he always was when his boxing practice didn't yield the results he wanted. It was supposed to decimate the tension he built up throughout the week, not make things worse…

* * *

Bucky licked his lips, eyeing the large pile of pancakes the waitress had just put down in front of them. Sam looked just as eager, lifting his fork already to spear a pancake. It was their usually Saturday ritual: they'd go to their favourite diner, order a huge plate of mixed pancakes and eat until they were both sick to the stomach.

The diner, Dr Red's, was their all-time favourite place to eat. It had red, white and blue accents everywhere and propaganda posters stuck on the walls below neon lights and vintage road signs. American flags were hung all over the place and a large statue of liberty was located in the very center of the diner. Its yellow flame reached right up until just below the ceiling, and Bucky had wondered, on numerous occasions, how they had even gotten the thing through the sliding doors.

"I'll trade you a double-chocolate pancake for a blueberry one?" Sam offered through a mouthful of pancake.

Bucky snorted, shaking his head vehemently. "Screw that Wilson, we're dividing them up fair and square. I ain't giving you a single one of mine."

"But Bucky, it's _blueberry_." Sam whined, throwing his head back dramatically, as though Bucky had just personally offended him.

"That is exactly my point." Bucky pointed out, "Everyone knows that the blueberry ones are the best."

"Gosh, who knew you could be so heartless, damn."

It had been meant as a joke, Bucky knew that, but Sam's words were enough to rile up his racing mind again. Along with the thoughts came the emotions and before he knew what was happening, he was just as distraught and confused as he had been during boxing. He had been doing so _well_. He'd managed to feign enthusiasm when they'd ordered, he'd made small talk with Sam while they'd waited, and he'd even managed to laugh at the right moments.

The smile fell off of Bucky's face.

He felt paranoid, as if everyone that looked at him could tell that there was something weighing on him; or worse, that they could tell _what _was bothering him- that he had made out with a guy on his bed whilst completely drunk out of his mind.

Steve seemed to have taken the whole thing in stride; he probably had a lot more practice in the department than Bucky had, what with a face like his.

Bucky on the other hand? It made him feel _uncomfortable_, like his skin was too small for him which made him want to squirm and frown and cringe.

He really was heartless, wasn't he?

He didn't fancy himself a homophobe, but he also knew that there was a stark difference between not being homophobic _at all_ and not being homophobic in theory. Bucky was terrified that he was one of those people that was only fine with the concept of a gay relationship right up until he was actually confronted with a gay couple or a man trying to hit on him. He saw himself as an open-minded, accepting person, but what if he wasn't as accepting as he wanted to be? What if he was going to have a problem with the fact that Steve was clearly attracted to men? Were they friends? Is that what they were? They'd tried to reset their friendship the day before, but Bucky had to begrudgingly admit that it was still very difficult to come back from having made out with a gay or bisexual man at a party while being, himself, completely straight. He also knew, he _knew _that he shouldn't have a problem with Steve's sexuality because there was nothing _wrong _with it.

Not knowing whether or not he was fine with Steve's sexuality made him anxious. The entire _situation _made him anxious. He had so many thoughts and feelings whirling around in his mind that he had trouble associating each feeling with the corresponding thought. It was like he was on a roller coaster, trying to figure out which way was up, and which way was down. He couldn't tell what he was feeling exactly, but all those emotions seemed to swim together to form the unbearable sensation of discomfort weighing down on him with every breath he took.

He had so many questions in his mind; questions that Bucky didn't have time to reflect on because his mind was yelling at him, reaching into his subconscious to alert him to the fact that Sam was talking to him.

He jolted, dropping his fork onto his plate. He must have interrupted Sam mid-word because his teammate's mouth was open, his eyebrows raised quizzically.

"Sorry." Bucky muttered, "I was… thinking."

"Well, no shit." Sam chuckled, "I could pretty much _see _the smoke coming out of your ears."

It was only for the shortest of moments that Bucky's facade dropped before he could stop it. The moment was long enough though, because Sam's face hardened with concern and he immediately put his fork down, disregarding his pancakes completely.

"Spit it out." He demanded.

Bucky tensed. He didn't want to have this conversation, regardless of how right T-Challa had been about his performance as of late. Yes, he'd spaced out during every single one of his lessons. Yes, his performance during practice and even during the game against Hydra had been sorely lacking and yes, he was even too inept to have a normal conversation with his best pal over Saturday afternoon pancakes.

Bucky lifted a hand to cover his mouth, groaning into the palm of his hand frustratedly. His thoughts were so loud again, and he felt like they were going to choke him if he didn't share them with Sam.

Bucky sighed, feeling his shoulders slump. "You don't mind gay people, right?" he checked.

"Excuse me?" Sam's eyes narrowed. He looked deeply offended for a moment, his eyes studying Bucky's, probably to figure out whether Bucky was actually being serious about the question. Sam's face softened when he picked up on the vulnerable, beseeching look Bucky was giving him. "Nah, man. I don't have a problem with it."

"Do you remember the guy you asked me about yesterday via text?" Bucky asked.

Sam nodded,

"His name is Steve. He's gay. Or bi. I'm not actually sure which one, only that he likes guys."

"And why is that a problem?" Sam inquired, visibly confused as to where Bucky was going with this. Bucky's seriousness seemed to unsettle Sam. Bucky was usually the first to insist on a casual atmosphere, often putting in the most work to break the ice and make everyone feel comfortable. Now Bucky was barely able to hold eye-contact with Sam, his fingers drawing patterns on the tabletop gingerly while his pancakes went cold.

"You gotta keep this to yourself, alright Sam?" Bucky pleaded wearily.

"You have my word." Sam promised firmly, concern drawing a dark line between his eyebrows, "You're my best friend man, you know you can tell me anything." He added, offering Bucky an encouraging smile once he had.

Bucky hesitated for a long moment. The words he had to say were stuck in his throat and he had to physically force his mouth to move, weighing each word as it passed through his lips. "Remember that gal I told you guys about? The one I said that I'd met at the party?"

"Of course I do." Sam confirmed softly.

"I don't think I ever told you about how I met her, right?"

"No. All you told us was that you met her at the party and that you couldn't stop thinking about her."

Bucky cringed. Every atom in his body was begging him to stop talking, to spare himself the humiliation of sharing the events of that evening but he pressed on, ignoring every doubt that he had in his mind. "I messed beer on her shirt and wanted to make it up to her. She was upset and wanted to leave so I offered to take her up to my room and give her a new shirt before she left. You remember how the wind was so cold that night, right? It wouldn't have been right of me to just let 'er go out in the cold like that…" Bucky's voice trailed off. The emotions associated with the memory were starting to suffocate him.

"You're okay." Sam encouraged him, "What happened next?"

"I took her up to my room and went to get her a new shirt. I was so piss drunk… I made a complete ass of myself, calling her a kid and everything. I could tell that she was getting annoyed with me, but it was like my mouth was completely disconnected from my mind."

"Bad combo." Sam nodded sympathetically.

"You're telling me." Bucky groaned, "At least I managed to get her a new shirt. She made me turn around when she got changed so I did." Despite himself, he smiled, "Then I turned around again… God Sam you should have seen 'er. She looked so damn cute in my shirt! It was way too big for her, 'looked like a tent on 'er."

Sam smiled.

"She looked so unsure, like she didn't know what to do and I wanted her to feel better. So I said the first thing that came to my head- I told her how beautiful I thought she was. She called bullshit but I kept telling 'er that she was beautiful. We started arguing and…"

"Oh shit Barnes, did you kiss her?!"

Bucky winced.

"For the love of-. Is she suing you? Is that what this is about? And what does that have to do with Steve? Please don't tell me you kissed his sister or anything! Bucky is Steve suing you because you tried to make a pass at his sister like a drunk pervert?!"

"Man, shut up Sam!" Bucky explained. Sam's words weren't exactly making Bucky feel any better about what he had done. "Nobody's suing me, damn…" He paused, fixing Sam with a stern look when he could tell that Sam was seconds away from another rant. "The thing is… I found out who she is yesterday. Turns out I was so drunk that I only _thought _that the person I was kissing was a girl when in fact-."

"You made out with a guy in your bed? At your party?"

Bucky stiffened, glaring daggers at Sam for a solid second before looking around. Why were all his friends so incredibly bad at keeping their voices down? By the time Bucky had made sure that no one was staring or eavesdropping, his face was hot, his blush reaching all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Sam was still gawking at Bucky, too shocked to even laugh about the whole situation. It was as though he was still waiting for Bucky to deny it.

"I kissed Steve."

Sam's eyes widened. He reached for his coke, taking a large sip before trying at a reply. "As in, Steve, the guy who is into guys?"

"Yes."

"Oh man… that's rough. I mean, you're straight so…"

"I _know _Sam! Why do you think this whole thing is so messed up?"

"How far did you go?" Sam asked incredulously, still awfully wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Kissing. And when I started," Bucky cringed at the memory, "when I tried to go further, he stopped me. He told me he stopped me because I was drunk."

"Decent guy." Sam nodded, "At least you kissed that sort of guy. Imagine you woke up and found out you'd-."

"How about we don't go there?" Bucky spluttered, feeling his blush creep all the way to the tips of his ears. His lips were trembling, and he felt the need to bite down on them to stop the involuntary show of emotion. "The problem is, now I think I'm homophobic."

"Why the hell would you think that?" Sam asked. His face had shifted to display confusion and Bucky was glad that he no longer looked like Bucky had grown an extra pair of ears.

"Because I feel like it's a bad thing that I kissed him."

"It's a kiss, it's harmless enough." Sam shrugged, "I mean, it's nothing earth-shattering. You didn't strip the kid naked or something."

"Steve ain't no kid." Bucky maintained, pausing to consider the rest of Sam's statement, "I still feel like there's something off about it."

"Again, you're a straight guy Bucky, and you kissed him thinking he was a girl. Think about it, if you were given the chance to kiss Steve now, would you?"

Bucky shook his head.

Sam snapped a finger at him, visibly pleased by the fact that Bucky had understood his point. "I also know you're the kind of guy who'll beat himself up over a thing like this. You don't drink a lot, got a little carried away and then kissed someone. Even if you'd kissed a girl, you'd probably have spent months apologizing to her for your behaviour."

Bucky sighed but nodded, knowing that Sam had hit the nail on the head. "I just… don't know how to feel about it." Bucky admitted, leaning back. His eyes found the half-eaten pancakes on his plate. He'd lost his appetite. 

* * *

Poor Bucky! All confused and stuff! Do let me know what you thought of the chapter and again, I'm really sorry for taking so long! In an attempt to make it up to you guys, I'll be sure to post a few more chapters this week!  
I hope you guys are all doing good! Thanks for stopping by!


	10. Chapter 10

Seeing as I'm kind of on a role right now, I decided to post another chapter!  
**Disclaimer: This chapter entails violence; reader discretion is advised! **

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**Chapter 10**

Sighing contently, Steve stretched his arms out above his head. His scoliosis was acting up a little, making his back ache. Spending the afternoon sitting underneath a tree probably didn't do much to lessen the pain in his back, but Steve wasn't usually one to let any of his ailments affect him more than was strictly necessary.

The sketchpad he used for college was resting on his bent knees, showing a half-finished sketch of the college courtyard.

In the three-dimensional plains of the drawing, Steve had captured the paved square, the rose bushes that bordered the courtyard and the beautiful fountain standing at the far end of the square. A small flowerbed surrounded the fountain, home to all sorts of different, gorgeous flowers flourishing in the summer warmth. The fountain itself was adorned with a large 'A' raised up on a pedestal of which the neck was surrounded by a wall of cascading water that fell into a deep basin.

A few students were seated on the benches beside the flowerbed, pouring over textbooks and homework assignments, accompanied by the soothing sound of flowing and splashing water.

Feverishly, Steve worked to capture them before they moved on, driven by the passing of time. Steve on the other hand, couldn't be bothered by the movement of the sun across the sky and the steady emptying of the college campus as students began to make their way home after class.

At Steve's back, the science building stretched three stories into the sky, large panorama windows making up the walls of the modern building. On the other side of the large courtyard, in the background of Steve's drawing, he had drawn the arts and culture building, home to the majority of Steve's classes. Unlike the science building, the arts and culture building looked more like an old baroque library. When Steve had first enrolled in Avengers Academy, he'd spent hours trying to capture the intricate details of the pillars and the arches decorating the facade of the beautiful building. Now, as his pencil added the details, he hardly had to look up at the structure, his memory serving as the only reference he needed.

The air around him was starting to cool, the afternoon heat finally ebbing away. A few clouds dotted the sky, coloured vivid shades of orange and pink by the setting sun. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves above Steve's head, drawing his eyes away from the sketch and up to the green canopy.

He smiled. Days like these were his favourite- where his mind was still, the weather was beautiful, and he could simply focus on what he loved to do most: draw.

Steve's moment of happy introspection was interrupted by the buzz of his smartphone wedged between his thigh and the sketchpad. Sighing quietly, he pulled it out, opening the notification he had gotten.

Clint had sent Steve a picture of a comic book he had evidently bought.

"Let me guess," Steve typed, "You're going to be MIA for the rest of the week until you're done with it?"

Smiling to himself, he shoved his phone into his messenger bag, haphazardly flipping the leather cover over the open zip before turning back to his sketch.

It was nice. Steve enjoyed his college life. It was better than anything he had experience since his mother's passing. The scholarship he had received from Director Fury, head of Avengers Academy, had quite literally saved Steve's life. He had a purpose again- a future; a reason to get out of bed in the morning and what's more, he was no longer stuck in an apartment haunted by memories of his late mother.

Distractedly, Steve recalled the time stamp on the message he'd sent Clint. It was already well past six in the evening. Although he would much rather spend the rest of the evening working on his art assignment, he knew that it was probably better to get back to his dorm and prepare for the classes waiting for him the next day. Ruefully, Steve finished his rendition of the arts and culture building before closing his sketchpad, sliding it into his bag next to his personal sketchbook carefully.

Steve groaned quietly when he got up, his scoliosis obnoxiously informing him that he should have at least brought something softer to lean against than the knobby trunk of a tree. The short blond rolled his shoulders gently before stretching his back, twisting his torso in one direction tentatively before doing the same in the other direction.

Humming to himself despite the pain, Steve turned his back on the scene he had been turning into art, heading in the direction of his dorm room.

He hardly graced the science building with a wayward glance- he found the building unappealing, ugly even. Apparently, it had been sponsored by Howard Stark, one of America's leading innovators in the field of science and technology. Steve chuckled to himself, finding quite a few parallels between the science building and the eyesore of a tower standing in the middle of Manhattan by the name of Stark Tower. It was a little pretentious, Steve thought, to name a tower after oneself.

He let his mind continue to wander in that direction, grateful and relieved that his thoughts were, for once, not taken up by Bucky. It had been half a week since Steve had told him the truth. The saying 'the truth will set you free' wasn't an exaggeration- Steve felt a lot better now that he knew that Bucky knew the truth. Yes, he'd been rejected but Steve hadn't expected anything else… which somehow still hadn't made it hurt less _or _make it easier to stop thinking about Bucky, which he was evidently accidentally doing again…

"Oi!"

Steve stopped in his tracks, whirling around to face the unfamiliar voice that had cut through his thoughts. "Oh, I'm sorry." Steve apologized immediately, quickly recovering from the fright he had gotten, "I didn't hear that you were following me."

The other student came to a stop in front of Steve. He was a lot taller than Steve and a lot more muscular too. He looked to be an athlete, dressed in ripped black jeans and the same type of Underarmour shirt Steve had seen Bucky wear. The leather jacket the student was wearing reeked of cigarette smoke and cold ash, driving Steve to take a step back.

When Steve's gaze snapped from the worn leather jacket to the student's eyes, he immediately picked up on the hint of contempt in them. Steve stiffened, mentally preparing himself for the worst.

"You a student here?" The black-haired student asked gruffly. He had a loose American accent, one that told Steve that he didn't come from New York; maybe Washington.

"Uh yeah. My name's Steve. I'm a fine arts major."

"Great yeah, don't care." The guy mumbled, eyes leaving Steve to sweep the surrounding campus instead.

"Can I help you with anything?" Steve inquired, taking another step back and pocketing his hands unsurely. Something was off. Steve felt uneasy, his heart mirroring this by beating a little faster.

"I'm looking for someone." The student said, protruding eyes finding Steve again, "His name is Barnes. Know the guy?"

Against his will, Steve flinched.

The other student sneered. "Good. Where is he?"

"Mind telling me who you are first?" Steve retorted.

"I'm a friend of his." The student insisted, his innocent smile dripping with artificiality.

Steve wavered. He could tell this guy that Bucky was probably busy finishing off football practice. He could tell him that the door to the locker room from the football field was locked by then and that he would have to go through the adjoining building to get to where Bucky was.

Steve didn't doubt that Bucky could handle himself, especially with his football team to back him up. If it had just been that, then Steve would have told this guy where to go. If he didn't care so much about Bucky, he would have told him; but he cared about Bucky and the thought of Bucky having to deal with a guy like this, made Steve feel inexplicably protective.

It didn't take Steve long to come to the conclusion that he wasn't going to tell this guy a damn thing.

"No offense or anything, but I doubt you're the kind of company Bucky keeps. So no, I ain't telling you where he is 'cause you sure as hell aren't a friend of his."

The other student's face darkened, and he took a step closer, crowding Steve against the large window of the science building. The suffocating stench of smoke rose into Steve's nose, making his asthmatic lungs strain to pull in fresh air.

"I'm not gonna ask you again." The stranger warned, "I got a score to settle with 'em and I'm not gonna let some loser get in my way."

Steve bristled, clenching his teeth angrily. "What score's that? He steal your girl?"

"I don't have a girl. I got many." The other man drawled smirking at Steve haughtily.

Steve only just barely managed to hide his disgust, resorting to glare at the taller man instead.

"He just pissed me off during last week's game." The student continued aloofly, completely unafflicted by the way Steve was looking at him, "Him and his stupid team think they're the greatest… gotta show him that you can't do that to Brock Rumlow."

Multiple coins dropped at the same time and Steve's eyes widened. Brock Rumlow… he was the quarterback for Hydra's football team. Not only that, but he was apparently one of the most despicable people Avengers Academy had ever had the pleasure of dealing with.

Brock apparently took it upon himself to harass the girls studying at Avengers Academy every time his team was there for a game. He had a bad attitude and lacked the sense to hide it, causing trouble not just on the football field, but wherever he found the opportunity to.

And now this guy was looking for Bucky and had instead, found Steve.

That same overwhelming sense of protectiveness bubbled up in Steve, fueling his determination to deter Brock. He wasn't going to let Brock get so much as a chance to hurt Bucky. Not Bucky!

"Is this because you guys lost?" Steve heard himself ask, surprised by how steady his voice was when he continued with, "I wasn't there but I heard that it was just one big ass-whooping!"

A growl erupted from Rumlow and he grabbed a hold of Steve's red jersey, the same one he had worn to Bucky's party, and lifted him up, pushing him against the glass window.

Steve's scoliosis flared up again instantly and he winced, biting down on his tongue to stop the groan that was building in his throat.

"You're gonna tell me where that dumbass is or I'm gonna make you regret it." Rumlow snarled, his obnoxious voice low and grating.

"I don't know where he is." Steve lied brazenly, fixing Brock with the firmest glare he could muster up despite his fear of what Brock meant with 'make you regret it'.

Brock scowled. "Then you'll call him and tell him to come over here."

"I don't have his number."

To Steve's surprise, Brock's grip on him loosened and he was set back down roughly.

The tall football player looked to be considering his options and the longer he did this, the wider his smirk became, all the while his eyes looked Steve over as though he was a helpless mouse, trying to find its way out of a maze that had no end.

"I guess I'll have to ask you to pass on a message for me then." Brock decided, stepping back from Steve and straightening the latter's red pullover, brushing out the small creases his calloused hands had previously caused.

Steve's wide eyes swept over Brock's face, noting the way his features were still coated in a thick layer of disdain. Something wasn't right. Steve only had the time to complete that thought before the same hand that had been on his pullover, pulled back and smashed into his face. The force of the punch made Steve's vision black out briefly and when he came to, he found himself crumpled together on the floor, leaning against the side of the science building. His head was spinning, throbbing. He was completely disorientated, desperately trying to make out what was going on around him. He didn't know where Brock was or what he was going to do; all he was certain of was the stabbing pain in his head and the hard pressure of the glass wall against his side.

Steve only barely registered the sound of his books clattering to the ground.

"Oh damn, what the hell is this?!"

Blinking blearily, Steve lifted his eyes to where he had heard Brock voice coming from.

Brock was holding Steve's oldest sketchbook, the one he always carried with him.

Steve whimpered.

Steve was forced to watch, unable to move, while Brock began leafing through the pages, snickering disdainfully at some of Steve's most personal and precious drawings.

His mother, his father, Clint, people in Central Park, buildings…

And then Brock began tearing the pages.

"Stop!" Steve screamed, an unexpected surge of adrenaline lifting him to his feet.

Brock must have stalled purposefully, waiting until Steve's fingertips were inches away from his precious sketchbook, before punching him again, this time in the stomach.

Again, Steve crumbled to the ground helplessly with a wheeze from his lungs. His aching head hit the floor hard. From his humiliating position on the sun warmed bricks, Steve could see the worn studded boots Rumlow was wearing. Then he saw the paper snow falling to the ground.

Tears began forming in Steve's eyes, distorting his vision enough to hide the fragmented drawings on the paper scraps that floated to the ground.

Brock was laughing. "Of course you wouldn't have his number!" he was saying, "Why would someone like him want to hang out with a loser like you?!"

A sob slipped from Steve's lips and he curled in on himself protectively, tucking his head between his shoulders and pushing his chin against his heaving chest.

"He probably won't even care that I beat you up! I still ain't gonna stop though! Might as well have my fun since I drove all the way over to your sorry excuse for a college!"

"Go to hell." Steve whispered.

"Sorry what was that?!" Steve's sketchbook fell to the floor right beside Steve's flushed face before long fingers intertwined themselves in Steve's blond hair, latching on and yanking his head up at an unnatural angle.

Steve screamed through gritted teeth when a jolt of pain travelled from Steve's neck, down his back. When his eyes managed to focus in spite of the pain, he found that he was being forced to look into Brock's eyes. They were a murky sort of colour- ugly and full of sadistic glee and anger.

"Say that again." Brock dared him, his voice reaching new depths.

"I told you to go fuck yourself." Steve bit out.

Brock punched him. Then again and again and _again_ until Steve's head lolled back.

Steve sunk to the ground when Brock let go of him. He was jumping between being unconscious and awake every few seconds like a flickering lamp. He felt like he was a passenger in his own body, connected only to the pain receptors that were howling as Brock kicking him, probably as hard as he could.

"I can do this all day." Steve heard himself mumble.

There was a pause after which Steve registered the rough sole of Brock's boot coming down on the side of his head. Brock twisted it, grinding the sole down into Steve's soft skin mercilessly as if he was trying to put out a cigarette.

"You're trash, do you know that?" Brock asked Steve irately, "Just a little, useless piece of shit that deserves to be thrown out into the road and kicked to death. Like one of 'em stupid dogs that nobody wants! Yeah, that's what you are: a stupid, useless mutt!"

Steve's eyes fluttered shut, and his fingernails scraped across the paved path, some breaking off in the process. He was biting his lip without realising it, his teeth piercing the skin and drawing blood.

"_He probably won't even care that I beat you up." _

Steve bit back his tears desperately, determined not to give Brock the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

"_Of course you wouldn't have his number! Why would someone like him want to hang out with a loser like you?"_

Brock bent forward, putting almost his entire weight on the foot that was resting atop Steve's head.

A sharp scream erupted from Steve, slipping into octaves that hurt Steve to produce, but nothing could hurt more than his head did in that very moment.

"_For what it's worth, I think the shirt looks good on ya."_

Bucky's name almost soundlessly slipped from Steve's lips. His bloodied hands wrapped around Brock's ankle in one last attempt to get him to let off.

The Hydra student guffawed, removing his foot from Steve's head and bending down, bringing his face down only inches away from Steve's.

"Make sure you pass that on to your pal, your buddy, your _Bucky_."

In one last, angry spell of defiance, Steve gathered all the spit and blood he had in his mouth and spat it into Brock's face.

The latter recoiled, gagging for a moment before kicking out, as hard as he could, his boot connecting with the side of Steve's head.

Everything went black.

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I'M SO SORRY OMG! I hated writing this! And I hated reading it! And I promise I don't want to hurt Stevie! Screw Rumlow...  
Do let me know what you thought and what you think will happen next!  
Also, stay healthy and safe loves! And thanks for stopping by!


	11. Chapter 11

Hey guys! Welcome back to another chapter of The One You Want! I hope you had a good start to your week and are doing alright under the current circumstances, regardless of where you are in the world!  
Also, sorry for hurting Steve in the last chapter...  
Here, have some Bucky!

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**Chapter 11**

Bucky was almost frantic getting to the showers. His body was coated in a sticky layer of sweat and dirt from the day's football practice and he could still feel the remnants of the sun's sweltering heat on his back. His short brown hair was slick with sweat, sticking to the nape of his neck and his forehead stubbornly.

Thor's towering figure was standing in the shower, stark naked and facing the wall. His long blond hair cascaded down between his shoulder blades, sticking to his wet skin like golden ropes. His broad shoulders shifted with the movements of his arms while he cleaned himself, the many well-developed muscles rippling right beneath his tanned skin.

Bucky stripped down unabashedly, leaving his towel just clear of the shower's spray on a hook in the wall. His feet tingled when the warm residue water from Thor's shower touched his bare skin.

Wordlessly, Bucky positioned himself underneath the free shower head, checking the temperature the shower was set to before turning the tap. The water that crashed down on him was ice cold at first, shocking Bucky's muscles into a state of utmost tension which then faded away gradually as the water became warmer.

A sigh escaped Bucky.

"Are you alright?" Thor's baritone voice echoed off the tiled floors, drowning out the hiss from the showers momentarily.

Bucky didn't have to turn around to know that Thor was still facing the wall. None of them enjoyed showing off their junk, or seeing that of other players, and as a result facing the wall had become an unspoken rule that everyone, except maybe Tony Stark, abided by.

Bucky stared at the ivory-coloured tiles in front of him, watching a few water droplets run down the smooth surface. This wasn't the first time as of late that one of his friends had asked him whether he was fine or not. It was frustrating because he didn't feel like there was anything was _wrong _per se, just that something was… _off_.

"O'course I'm fine." Bucky settled on a brush-off, "Just had a rough couple'a weeks."

"Tell me about it." Thor sympathized.

Bucky immediately noted the subdued lull to Thor's words and it made him stand up a little straighter, his mind straying from his own problems to instead worry about his teammate- Thor was not the type of guy to get down about things.

"Want to talk about it?" Bucky offered, "I mean, we are just a couple of guys standing under the shower naked, how weird could it get?"

That made Thor laugh. "Well I suppose there's no harm to be done. We are already naked in body, why not undress ourselves emotionally as well? I shall share my tribulations with you my friend."

Bucky had to stifle a laugh. Thor's strange way of speaking almost always wanted to tempt a laugh out of Bucky. Now was not the time tough, so he distracted himself by running his hand through his hair, massaging the oil from his scalp methodically.

"It is my brother. You know him, don't you?" Thor began. He didn't wait for Bucky to respond, knowing that the quarterback was listening even if he didn't give constant vocal feedback, "He tried to blow up the chemistry lab again."

Bucky halted. He'd heard about the academy having to close off that part of the science building, but they had failed to inform anyone as to _why_. "Again?" Bucky queried, undecided as to whether he really wanted to hear the full extent of Loki's attempts to destroy college property.

"Again." Thor confirmed gravely after a brief pause, "I worry that it is because he is adopted. What if we are doing something wrong?"

"That's horseshit!" Bucky exclaimed, barely managing to refrain from turning to face Thor to show him the look of conviction on his face. Again, Bucky had to remind himself to keep washing himself off. "I don't think Loki hates you, if that's what you're worried about. You've told me before that he's always been real' mischievous. I'm guessing he just needs to find his place in the world, you know?"

"Do you really think so?" In the periphery of his vision, Bucky could see that Thor was leaning his forehead against the tiles, peering down at his feet sadly.

"I know so." Bucky tried to encourage him, hoping that his voice sounded at least half as convinced as he felt, "You ain't the type to give up, so don't go giving up on Loki just yet."

"Thank you, Barnes."

"Don't mention it, pal."

Bucky and Thor finished their showers at roughly the same time. Thor took a little longer, what with the length of his thick golden locks, and by the time he had finished ringing out every tuft of hair, Bucky was standing beside him with a towel wrapped around his waist.

The relaxation the shower had granted Bucky vanished with the same speed at which the moist air fled the shower room the moment he opened the door. The adjoining locker room was brimming with chaos, voices competing against each other for dominance and bodies pushing each other around. The confusion and tension in the air was almost palpable, weighing down on Bucky the moment he set foot in the room.

"What part of naked and in the shower did you not understand?!" Sam's familiar voice stood out from the rest, his frantic tone registering with Bucky immediately.

Anxiously, Bucky scanned the crowd of athletes until he found Sam. He was standing next to a shorter man with ash-blond hair and a fire burning brightly in his eyes. The student was red-faced due what Bucky assumed was anger, his chest rising and falling visibly with each breath he took.

"I don't give a flying fuck if he's in there naked!" The blond man growled, puffing up like a blowfish. His eyes flicked around the room haphazardly before fixing Sam with another deathly glare. "Where the hell is Barnes?!"

Bucky stiffened. If Sam didn't look so disconcerted, he may have considered brushing all of it off, avoiding a direct confrontation and going about his day as if the blond man didn't exist. He shot a glance at Thor, who was still close at his side. His light blue eyes were panning between the newcomer, Sam and Bucky, confusion clearly written all over his Nordic features.

Taking a slow breath, Bucky steeled himself before speaking up. "I'm right here man, so how about you lay off my best pal?"

The blonde's head whipped around to look at Bucky so quickly that Bucky cringed, wondering if it had hurt. The next thing Bucky registered, was that the blond was moving towards him, with a fist raised to strike. His features were contorted, his fury evident not only in his shimmering eyes, but also in every crease on his face and in the way his lips bent into a frown.

Bucky didn't move. He stared at the other man dumbly, catching sight of Sam moving in the background. With a loud crash and a yelp, the blond was slammed into the line of lockers by Sam, both arms pinned behind his back and his cheek and chest both pressed against the cool metal.

"You motherfucker!" The stranger bit out between clenched teeth.

Bucky bristled, a scowl of his own warping his features. "What was that?" Bucky's tone was a warning, daring the other student to say that again. Bucky was a fair guy- he took insults if he deserved them. However, he'd never seen this student before, and he wasn't about to just stand around and let him insult him like that.

"It's all your fault!" The other student continued hysterically, pushing his back into Sam's chest in protest, feet scuffing the ground helplessly, bumping into Sam's bare feet repeatedly.

"Clint!" Sam warned, bending forward until his mouth was aligned with Clint's ear, "You don't wanna do this, believe me. Just calm down, man!"

Bucky's shoulders dropped. The irritation that had been tightening his chest dwindled away under the force of the realisation that hit him like a truck. Clint? As in, Steve's best friend, Clint?

"Clint Barton?" Bucky asked, somewhat dumbly.

Bucky's blatant confusion seemed to fan the flames of anger burning in Clint's eyes because he struggled again, getting so far as removing his face from the locker before Sam applied more force.

"Just let me go!" Clint yelled, "Let me go! God, that fucking jackass! Just let me go, damn it!"

Only scarcely managing to ignore Clint's insults, Bucky's eyes flicked to Sam to make sure that he was unhurt and still managing. Once he was sure that Sam was okay, his eyes found Clint again. "You didn't answer my question." He muttered tightly, "Are you Clint Barton?"

Bucky's question interrupted Clint's attempts to escape and the shorter student relented with a dissatisfied grunt, visibly working his jaw while he stared at Bucky relentlessly. "That's me." Clint growled contemptuously, "Shit, you're so lucky your posse is here to protect your sorry ass. You got no idea how much I wanna punch your teeth in right now, _Barnes_."

Sam tensed visibly and beside Bucky, Thor drew in a sharp breath and the crowd around them stirred nervously.

Bucky scowled, fastening the towel around his waist a little more before saying, "Let him go."

Sam gave Bucky a pleading look. "Bucky come on. Are you sure this is-."

"I doubt he'll be a problem much longer." Bucky interjected, smirking when Clint frowned at his confidence.

Shooting Bucky another discontent look, Sam did what his best friend had asked him to and let go of Clint.  
As soon as Clint realised that there were no longer any hands holding him back, he bolted forward, hand raised to punch Bucky. His movements were easy to read and Bucky's experience as a boxer guided his body on autopilot, bending his back and ducking his head in time to dodge Clint's punch before his own fist came up to jab Clint in the solar plexus- hard.

Winded, Clint groaned, stumbling to the side whilst trying to inhale again. Bucky used the moment to grab a hold of Clint's shirt, lifting him up and slamming him into the lockers back-first.

Clint gasped, still clearly struggling to fill his lungs again after the punch he'd gotten from Bucky.

Sam stirred but didn't interfere, shifting from one foot to the other worriedly while his eyes watched the exchange.

"You wanna tell me what the _hell _this is about, Clint?" Bucky muttered, working hard to keep his voice down.

Surprisingly, Clint's anger crashed into sadness and he bowed his head like a submissive dog, muttering a quiet, "What do you think this is about? The only thing that could possibly make me wanna punch Avengers Academy's star pupil in the mug, is Steve." Clint's voice broke on the name and it sent a shiver down Bucky's spine. Goosebumps broke out across his skin in the same kind of instinctive show of emotion that was happening on his face. His goosebumps were clearly visible to everyone, spreading across his arms and the expanse of his bare torso. His grip on Clint faltered and the blond stood up a little straighter. He was struggling with his composure, averting his eyes every few seconds while Bucky's gaze bore into him relentlessly.

Bucky swallowed heavily, ridding himself of the emotional lump in his throat before daring to speak up, hoping his voice would cooperate. "What happened?"

Tears welled up in Clint's eyes, balancing on his lower eyelid precariously while his baby blues stared up at Bucky, equal measures sad, scared and pleading.

Bucky felt his throat tightened and he began struggling to draw in air. The only thing running through his mind was Steve's name on constant repeat, like a broken record, like a prayer. His heart was beating frantically, his fingers trembling where they still half-heartedly held onto the purple shirt Clint was wearing.

"Is he okay? Where is he?" Bucky blurted out, crowding closer to Clint anxiously, wishing he could force an answer out of the distraught young man. Clint's hesitation was enough to make Bucky want to punch him again, but he reined himself in, biting down on his bottom lip instead. Punching Clint once was something he might still be able to explain to Steve, but twice…?

"The infirmary let him go this morning. They kept him there for two days…" Clint mumbled hoarsely, slumping back against the lockers tiredly and Bucky's hands went with him.

"I'm going to ask you one more time…" Bucky's rough voice trailed off when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He shot a look to his side. The hand belonged to Sam. He looked alarmed, his eyes wide and searching. Bucky's frazzled mind only barely managed to wonder why Sam looked so startled. Then he realised that he didn't care.

"Where is Steve, Clint?" He asked impatiently, directing his eyes back to Clint again.

"He's on bedrest in his dorm."

Bucky let go of Clint. The blonde's knees buckled, and he slid to the ground, his back resting against the locker. Bucky's eyes were wild and unfocused as he began going through the motions of getting dressed. His team, including Sam, steered clear of him, falling into an uncomfortable silence while they pointedly avoided watching Bucky get dressed.

* * *

Bucky cursed under his breath, turning off the path to run on the lawn instead. Students were cluttering the paths, following the given footpath like mindless sheep. Bucky didn't have time for crowded pathways.

His feet carried him, as fast as they could, towards the dorm Clint had directed him to. It stood at the edge of the campus on the same side as the science building. It was almost laughable that Steve had to pass his building every time he went to class. How many times, before their initial meeting, had Bucky seen Steve without realising it? How many times had they passed each other without caring about the other? Before the party… before everything went to shit.

The dormitory was a brownstone building, towering three stories above the ground with a flat roof. The façade was covered in windows, some of which had curtains while others had blinds.

Twenty-three. Steve's dorm room was on the second floor and had the number twenty-three. In Bucky's clenched fist, he held onto Clint's dorm key that the blond had reluctantly unhanded when Bucky had somewhat aggressively asked for it.

Bucky was through the entrance hall within seconds and made quick work of the stairs, taking them two at a time until he was on the right floor. He turned left first, realising quickly that he was going the wrong way before spinning on his heel and taking the corridor to the right instead. Of course, Steve's room was the very last one.

Bucky didn't think; not when he pushed the key into the lock and not when he opened the door without knocking. He did, however, stop short in the doorway to the dorm, reality crashing down on him like an ice-cold waterfall.

This was Steve's dorm room…

The room was a mess. While this was normal for a college student's dorm, the heap of gauze tape on the floor definitely wasn't. A tight knot formed in Bucky's stomach and he swallowed nervously, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Two beds stood opposite to each other against the walls. The one bed was empty and unmade. The second one was covered in a small mountain of blankets and pillows. The bedside table beside the bed was full of pencils and a light blue inhaler. Tissues littered the floor beside the bed and the gauze tape. Posters depicting different movie scenes and characters were hung up all over the walls. A narrow bookshelf stood beside the desk that was cluttered full of textbooks.

"Clint?" From beneath the many pillows emerged Steve's face, eyes red-rimmed yet curious. When he saw who was really standing in his dorm though, his face hardened. His eyebrows furrowed, and he gritted his teeth. In an eruption of pillows and blankets, Steve was on his feet. He swayed a little, hand reaching out for his bedside table to steady himself. Once he had found his center of gravity again, he began limping over to Bucky who was standing, frozen, watching Steve with a look akin to consternation on his face.

"Get out!" Steve yelled, making Bucky flinch. Frowning irately, Steve covered the rest of the distance between the two of them and pushed against Bucky's chest weakly, prompting Bucky to back up. The pressure was so slight that it hardly registered through Bucky's shock.

"I told you to get the hell out of my dorm Bucky!" Steve raised his voice- his voice that was still strained and sad.

Bucky was unresponsive. His mind was too busy cataloguing all the sores all over Steve's porcelain skin to give him a response. Steve had a deep purple bruise on the side of his face, starting at his temple and running down all the way to his jawline. The bruise had a strange shape, and Bucky could swear there was a pattern to it, as though someone had pushed some sort of object into the side of his face. He also had a split lip that was blue and swollen. A few lacerations covered his cheekbones; the edges of the wounds coloured a deep red. His body was stiff, not the angry type of stiff- the sore type. His shoulders hugged his neck, making him look smaller and more vulnerable. His left arm was slung across the flat of his stomach protectively while his right hand had come to rest against Bucky's chest, keeping him at a distance.

"Steve."

"Piss off!" Steve screamed, pushing again, a little harder.

Despite himself, Bucky felt anger well up in his chest. It seized his mind, throwing all rational thinking out the window in a hot flash of protectiveness. "I ain't going nowhere, Steve, not until you tell me who did this to you."

"It was nobody." Steve replied tersely, averting his eyes.

"Steve! Tell me who-."

"No!" Steve's gaze was back on Bucky, "I don't gotta do anything!" He had that fire in his eyes again. Bucky remembered it from the party- the way Steve had looked at him after he'd accidentally upended the contents of his cup onto Steve's pullover.

Steve held eye-contact stubbornly, chewing his lip in an unintentional display of uncertainty. Bucky recognized it though- it was the same tick he'd picked up on that night, despite the alcohol that had clouded his mind.

"Stevie, please let me help you." Bucky implored, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting to reach out.

"Right!" A bitter laugh erupted from Steve's throat, rough and painful. The hand that was resting against Bucky's chest clenched, twisting Bucky's lose white t-shirt between long, artist's fingers. "I'm not some damn charity case for a spoilt rich kid like you, Bucky!"

Bucky recoiled, slamming into the closed door with his back. It felt like Steve had just punched him in the stomach. He felt winded, unable to draw in the right amount of air. He felt helpless. He was angry, _so angry _at Steve for not telling him what had happened and yet he knew that he had no right to demand that Steve tell him anything. It was Bucky's worry that was making him so angry- he was worried sick. He wanted to check Steve's whole body for wounds, patch them up and then he wanted to find whoever did this to him and put those same wounds all over _their _body.

"Just go Buck." Steve sounded exhausted. His voice was weak, pleading- a strong contrast to the way it had been a moment ago. He looked miserable, like something inside of him was crumbling, breaking.

"I ain't going anywhere." Bucky insisted

"But-."

"Don't you ever tell me that you're a charity case to me." He interjected edgily, wrapping an arm around Steve's waist and hoisting him up into the air.

Steve yelped, bony fingers finding Bucky's shoulders for something to hold onto. Bucky was at Steve's bedside in only three large strides. His free hand shoved away all the pillows and blankets before settling Steve's small body onto the mattress. He could feel the frown on his own face. He could feel the tension in his jaw and the way his eyebrows were furrowing. He didn't know exactly what his face was expressing because he couldn't comprehend what he was feeling. It was a wild mix of different overwhelming emotions all driving him to move, to act.

Whatever his face was projecting however, it seemed to placate Steve whose eyes were wide with surprise. He watched Bucky quietly while the football player began arranging the pillows and blankets around Steve's pain-wracked body.

Bucky was hoping that the process would calm him down. It didn't. His fists itched for a person or a boxing bag, wanting to smash his knuckles into something with enough resistance to satisfy the need to break something. The impulse spread from his knuckles, down the ligaments in his hands and arms and twirled together into an angry hot ball in his chest.

"I didn't need your help..." And then that same impulse vanished in the face of Steve's expressive eyes looking up at him sulkily through long dark-blond eyelashes.

Bucky huffed a weak chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, you definitely don't need anyone's help it looks like." He waved a hand at Steve's body, smirking when the latter's eyes narrowed.

"Did you come here to rub it in, is that it?" Steve's voice shook.  
It made Bucky hesitate, considering his answer carefully before wording it. "No. I ain't here to rub anything in, Stevie."

"Then why did you come?"

"I came here to make sure you're alright."

"Why?"

"Because I had to be sure that you're fine."

Steve frowned, notably perplexed by Bucky's honest answer. "Why?"

Bucky's thoughts faltered. "I don't know…"

* * *

And there you have it! I really hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a review to let me know what you think!  
Until next time guys!


	12. Chapter 12

Hey guys! So amidst the craziness of the world at the moment, I present you a nice long chapter of this fanfiction!  
**Disclaimer: WARNING: Violence and strong language. **

Other than that, I do hope you guys are doing well despite the circumstances! Please enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Steve gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The bruises on his face were turning an off-putting yellow. Going to class looking so beat-up had been bad enough, but going out looking like a human punching bag? Despite his many attempts to tell himself that he didn't care about what others thought of him, he actually did.

Steve would much rather have spent the evening cooped up in his dorm room, but Clint had had an idea, and as was usual for their dynamic, it was up to Steve to follow up on that idea.

This relentless feeling of duty that Steve had towards Clint, saw him now dressed in a tight pair of dark grey skinnies and his red pullover. It was far too warm for a long-sleeve, but Steve felt self-conscious enough about the way he looked without showcasing his scrawny arms.

Drawing in a deep breath to calm the uncomfortable buzz in his stomach, he wet his hands under the tap before running them through his hair in an attempt to tame it at least a little.

It wouldn't have been so bad, Steve figured, if it were to just be the two of them. It wasn't though.

"It's been way too long since we've actually gone out and done something!" Clint sauntered into the bathroom, hands locked together behind his head casually. When he saw the unimpressed glare that Steve was directing at him through the mirror, Clint smirked, lifting his hands above his head in a pacifying, innocent gesture. "Are you still mad at me? Listen, I had to make it up to them. I harassed Sam for a solid eight minutes and almost barged in on Bucky in the shower in all his naked glory. I tried to punch him. Emphasis on tried…" He paused, offering Steve an apologetic, yet imploring smile, "The least I should do is take them out for something to eat."

Steve felt his glare falter. He relented with an exasperated sigh, drying his hands off on the towel hanging next to the sink before turning to face Clint. He leant his lower back against the edge of the sink. "I don't care about who you invite where. I do care that you told them I'd come along."

"What was I supposed to say?" Clint asked innocently, stepping back to give Steve some more room. The bathroom was clearly too small for the two of them, but while they had to share the showers with the rest of the students, they at least had their own toilet and sink so neither of them was about to complain.

"Sam asked if you'd come along because he really wanted to meet you, you know, officially." Clint went on, not oblivious to the long-suffering expression on Steve's face, "Besides, you and Bucky are friends, so why not?"

"I doubt we even qualify as friends." Steve mumbled, ducking his head gloomily.

Clint placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, wrapping his fingers around the bones hiding beneath Steve's porcelain skin.

"What about yesterday?" Clint asked, "You never told me what happened after he went to come find you."

"Nothing _happened_." Steve insisted tightly, trying to escape the situation by marching back into the bedroom and going to sit down on his bed like a sulking child.

Clint followed Steve wordlessly, resolutely taking a seat next to Steve and giving him a pointed look.

Clint knew him too well, Steve realised. He knew that Steve wanted nothing more than to make sense of the situation and that he was frustrated because he couldn't- because nothing that had happened over the past few weeks made any sense.

Steve ducked his head, his shoulders pulling up towards his ears while he let himself think back to the night before. "I didn't want him here." Steve gestured to the room vaguely, "I didn't want him to see the bruises or how upset I was. I tried to get him to leave but the jerk wouldn't budge. Eventually I just gave up and he stayed. We just ended up talking."

"Did you tell him who hurt you?" Clint enquired, leaning forward to get a better look at his best friend's face.

Steve sighed, shaking his head. "He looked too… angry. I was afraid of what he would do if I told him. Besides, I got beat up to prevent a confrontation between Brock and Bucky, not to cause one." Once he'd said it, he cringed, remembering what Brock had said about how Bucky probably wouldn't care about Steve getting hurt. Bucky's actions the previous day had proven Brock wrong, but Steve still hadn't quite been able to shake the bitter taste Brock's words had left in his mouth.

"I know what you mean… about his anger." Clint concurred quietly, looking to be lost in thought, "When I mentioned your name and that something had happened, he got real' upset. He looked like he wanted to hurt me, like, really _hurt _me. That's probably the only reason I told him so quickly. God he was terrifying, thought he was gonna knock me out."

Steve agreed with a quiet hum.

"If I didn't know that he was straight though…"

Steve's head snapped up and he fixed Clint with a frantically beseeching look that made the air in Clint's lunge stutter to a halt, "Don't. Don't make me think like that Clint! He ain't like that- he's straight, always has been, always will be. It took me long enough to accept it and try to move on so please, don't make me hope for things to be any different."

"Right." Clint cleared his throat sheepishly, gingerly wrapping an arm around Steve's shoulder in a guilty attempt to comfort his best friend, "I'm sorry."

* * *

Where had Clint even _heard _of this diner?

Steve leaned back against the backrest of the red bench, allowing his eyes to wander around the almost painfully patriotic diner. Reds, whites and blues made up the predominant colour-scheme of the diner. Patriotic accents were all over the place- from numerous American flags to Route 66 signs, all the way to framed photos of New York City and Hollywood Boulevard. The tiles beneath their feet were chequered white and black; they stood in stark contrast to the vibrant red upholstery on each bench and chair.

At first, when they'd walked through the glass sliding doors, Steve had been far too nervous to get a good look at his surroundings. The only thing his eyes had been looking out for, was the familiar combination of brown hair and silver-blue eyes. Bucky and Sam hadn't arrived yet though, and it gave Steve the moment of peace he needed to let his artist's eye appreciate his environment. One thing in particular caught his attention: a large Statue of Liberty stood front and centre, surrounded by numerous booths. Steve's eyes took in the dips and curves of the plastic replica, his gaze traveling all the way up to the flame that was only inches away from the ceiling. "How do you think they got it in here?" Steve mused, looking from the statue to the entrance that was clearly too small to fit the statue.

"Beats me." Clint joined Steve's musing, tearing his eyes away from the menu in favour of scrutinizing Lady Liberty, "Maybe they assembled it in here?"

"Probably." Steve muttered, already moving on to the next thing to look at.

Steve's favourite little addition to the diner was probably the milkshake bar- a long counter with a silver finish and a red top. He could almost picture himself sitting on one of the bar stools with a sketchpad in front of him, sipping a milkshake while sketching all the many, many different details the diner provided.

"Steve?"

Steve's eyes found Clint who was sitting to his left, leaving the bench opposite to them empty for Bucky and Sam. Clint was frowning at him gently, his eyes flicking between Steve's face and the menu Steve was clinging onto for dear life.

Steve closed his eyes for a brief second, introspection giving away just how nervous he was despite his valiant attempts to distract himself, to hide how anxious he was about seeing Bucky again.

"Yesterday, when he came to visit me," Steve began, turning his voice down to a whisper, his eyes darting around the diner to make sure that Bucky really was nowhere to be seen, "I was too upset by the situation with Brock to even worry about the fact that I was alone with him. The only thing I was able to think about was that I wanted Bucky gone. I-." Steve broke off, wincing at his own thoughts.

Clint raised his eyebrows at Steve- a prompt for him to continue and simultaneously a promise not to judge him.

"I'm really scared to see him again." Steve finally admitted, lowering his eyes to the menu in front of him. He didn't even feel like eating anything anymore, his stomach twisting uncomfortably every time he thought about the fact that Bucky was going to be sitting opposite to him all evening.

Throughout the endlessly long day, Steve had come to the conclusion that Bucky had probably only come to see him the day before because he still felt guilty for what had happened at the party. Steve knew that Bucky's mother had raised him right- Bucky probably just felt like he needed to make it up to Steve for not returning the interest Steve clearly had in him.

"How'd the guy manage to get you to fall for him anyway?"

The abruptness of Clint's question threw Steve for a loop and he spluttered.  
Clint laughed, clapping Steve on the back until the shorter blond finally managed to compose himself again enough to talk. He still didn't look at Clint though, his eyes skimming over the menu as though he was trying to memorize it.

"Is it because he's hot?" Clint prodded when Steve still hadn't given him an answer.

Steve shot a scandalized look in Clint's direction, pointedly ignoring the way his cheeks warmed up. "He's so much more than his looks, Clint." Steve hadn't intended to sound so defensive and of course Clint picked up on the edgy tone to Steve's voice immediately.

"And what's that, then? What makes Bucky so special?" Clint questioned, a challenge floating on his voice.

Steve prickled, opening his mouth with the intent to tell Clint off, when a warm voice cut through their conversation like a knife through warm butter.

"Barton!"

Clint and Steve jumped, directing their eyes towards the entrance. Sam was waving, grinning over at them like his smile was made of sunshine. He was dressed in a maroon Henley that complimented his rich skin colour. Clinging to thick thighs was a pair of black jeans that ended in sneakers that looked like they were more expensive than anything Steve owned.

To his left, Bucky looked equally as well put together. His hair was casually combed back, left to do its own thing atop his head. He was wearing a grey NASA shirt underneath a black cardigan that tightened around his wrists, highlighting the hard, muscly line of Bucky's forearms. He was wearing Nike sneakers that looked a lot like Sam's, finishing his look off with torn dark blue jeans.

Steve shrunk in on himself, bowing his head to hide how red his face was going.

This was only the second time Steve was seeing Bucky outside of college. Usually, he'd wear tracksuits with the occasional slim fit shirt- that's what Steve had been expecting; not something that made him look even better than his sports clothes already did.

When Clint nudged him with his foot, Steve realised hat he'd been staring down at the table top for a little too long. Sam and Bucky had come to standstill in front of their table.

Sam was smiling at the two of the warmly while Bucky was giving Steve curious look.

"Steve!" Sam was the first to speak up, "It's great to finally meet you officially. I know we met when you came to visit Bucky before the game but, yeah, I didn't really get to introduce myself back then." He let Bucky pass him to slide into the booth first, positioning the brunette opposite to Steve. Once he was sure that Bucky was seated and comfortable, Sam joined them, still smiling at Steve expectantly.

Surprised by the fact that Sam was expecting a response, Steve arched his eyebrows, glancing at Clint for help before realising that he was on his own. Clint was leaning back, smiling at Steve as if to say, "You've got this."

"Yeah." Steve mumbled, clutching onto his knees beneath the table nervously, "I'm sorry that I never introduced myself properly. I'm Steve Rogers." He extracted one of his hands from his leg, reaching across the table to shake Sam's hand. The football player seemed positively surprised, his megawatt grin becoming impossibly brighter when he shook Steve's hand with a near to painfully firm handshake.

"Sam Wilson." he pointed to Bucky, "This guy's best friend. He's a lot of work."

"Put a cork in it, Wilson." Bucky chipped in. He was smirking. "If anyone's a lot of work, then it's Tony Stark. Don't compare me to Tony Stark."

"You're friends with Tony Stark? As in, the son of Howard Stark? The most famous inventor of the 21st century?" Clint spoke up enthusiastically, waiting for Sam and Bucky to nod their affirmation before adding, "Nat told me about all sorts of people but not Tony!"

"That's because her and Tony don't see eye to eye." Bucky grinned, exchanging a knowing glance with Sam, "They get into more fights than Stark does with his old man."

The conversation went on while they each chose their meal. Bucky walked Steve through the menu enthusiastically, recommending things from barbeque burgers, chocolate-swirl milkshakes all the way to pancakes that were apparently to die for.

Steve wasn't very talkative. Bucky left him tongue-tied, clumsy and nervous and he quickly resigned himself to keeping his hands away from drinks that could spill and keeping his mouth shut, listening to the animated conversation instead. Again, Steve felt envious of the ease with which Clint managed to navigate through social interactions. He had Sam and Bucky laughing along with jokes or completely enraptured by a story he was telling. Sam was a lot like Clint, the kind of guy who could entertain an entire crowd if he wanted to. Bucky, Steve knew this, was like that too but he was a little quieter than the others, listening most of the time while throwing in a sarcastic comment every once in a while, that had Sam and Clint doubling over with laughter.

Steve was almost too distracted by the constant fire burning behind his cheeks and his unrelenting nervousness, to notice the way Bucky kept shooting glances in his direction. He was probably trying to make it look casual, but Steve could easily see the intensity in those stormy blue eyes of his.

It took Steve a few minutes to conjure up enough courage to meet Bucky's eyes. It was only once they'd placed their orders and once Sam had Clint falling over the table laughing, that Steve felt comfortable enough to catch Bucky's eye. As soon as their eyes met, Steve felt a stifling sense of fluster well up in him, but he pushed it back down, arching his brows quizzically.

Bucky hesitated. He shot a glance at Sam, who had just thrown an arm across Bucky's shoulders, laughing loudly at something Clint was saying, before looking back at Steve.

To Steve's surprise, Bucky ducked his head as if unsure before speaking up quietly. "How are you feeling Stevie?"

Steve pointedly ignored the way his heart started beating a little faster and the way the fire behind his cheeks became that little bit fiercer. "I'm okay. Still a little stiff in some places, but it's getting there."

"That's good."

Steve had wholeheartedly hoped that having two exuberant people like Sam and Clint with them would avoid any awkward silences, but he had hoped for too much. Sam and Clint were having their own little conversation, laughing and chatting loudly while Steve and Bucky were caught in a bubble of awkward silence.

Bucky began fidgeting, shifting the salt and pepper shakers around on the table pointlessly, his eyes following the movement.

"I…" Steve opened his mouth without thinking, the need to break the silence making him reckless. He winced inwardly when Bucky's eyes snapped to his. Bucky's hand, that had been busy manhandling the saltshaker, stilled.

Why had he spoken up? He had nothing to say! "Never mind." Steve forced an apologetic smile.

Bucky frowned but resumed his previous activity, his eyes leaving Steve's a second later.

Steve deflated, pressing his back into the soft backrest of the bench.

Of course he had a lot to say! He had a whole world's worth of words about how much Steve cared about him, but those were all words that he wasn't allowed to say out loud. He couldn't tell Bucky that he wished for nothing more than another chance to make things right- to repeat the night without misunderstandings, without alcohol or insecurities- as if that could change Bucky's mind…

He couldn't openly admit that he wanted to get to know Bucky, find out what made him tick and what he liked to do. He wanted to know about Bucky's favourite flavours, his favourite movies and why he loved space so much. He couldn't tell Bucky that he wondered, _so often, _what Bucky's kiss felt like when he wasn't drunk.

Desperately searching for an escape from his thoughts and from the silence reigning between Bucky and him, Steve eventually turned his attention to Sam and Clint's conversation, chiming in every so often in hopes that it would make him seem laid-back and not like he was having a mild anxiety attack.

Bucky on the other hand, stayed silent, one hand still wrapped around the saltshaker while he too listened to Sam and Clint. There was a faint smile on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

* * *

The arrival of their food did a lot to disperse the awkward tension between Bucky and Steve.

Once the blueberry pancakes he had ordered were in front of him, Bucky seemed to go back to his usual, cheerful self. Sam was going on and on about the ribs he had ordered so exaggeratedly, that it made Bucky laugh.

Steve hadn't often heard Bucky laugh so he allowed himself to enjoy the sound of Bucky's laughter for a moment before tending to the large meal the pretty waitress had put in front of him.

Bucky definitely hadn't exaggerated when he'd told Steve that Dr Red's made large portions- the meal he had ordered was enough to feed him for the next two days. The burger sitting to one side of the large plate looked fresh and juicy, lettuce and barbeque sauce leaking out to one side while the slices of cheese peaked out between the tomato slices and the patty invitingly. The fries were golden and crisp, shimmering with the feintest layer of oil.

Despite himself, Steve said, "This looks really good."

"Just wait 'til you try it Stevie!" Bucky grinned, holding Steve's eyes for a second longer than was considered normal before turning his attention to his pancakes.

Steve smiled stupidly, watching the enthusiasm drip from Bucky like a contagious laugh.

A little awkwardly, Steve guided the large burger to his mouth, struggling a little to get a solid grip on it with his teeth before biting down. Steve moaned rather obscenely, albeit without meaning to.

It seemed to catch Bucky's attention though, because he looked up, a slow smirk building on his lips.

Before Bucky could say anything about the sounds Steve was making, Clint chipped in with, "Okay so Sam is going to be the one to give me all the tips on places to eat from now on!" He was staring down at his steak as if he'd just fallen in love. The steak was huge, medium-rare with a rich layer of brown sauce that made the already juicy-looking meat look even more appetizing.

The unlucky fries that were too close to the steak were being drowned in its sauce, but Steve was pretty sure that that was only going to make them taste even better.

Steve was the first to notice the voice.

It was obnoxious, grating in a way that put Steve's teeth on edge. It was also familiar, the sound of it sending a cold shiver racing down Steve's spine. As soon as his eyes found Brock Rumlow, Steve's fingers went numb and the burger fell from Steve's grasp, dropping onto his plate and coming apart all over the fries.

Brock had just gotten up from a table not too far from them, stalking after one of the waitresses intently. She had almost made it to the door leading to the kitchen when Brock caught up with her, wrapping one of his filthy hands around her wrist. She spun around, fear evident in every movement she made.

"Sam, let me out, will ya?"

Steve's eyes were back on Bucky, Brock momentarily forgotten. Much to Steve's dismay, he realised that his extreme reaction to what was happening behind Bucky and Sam must have alerted the quarterback to what was going on. Sam was already reluctantly making a move to get up. He looked exasperated but understanding, heaving his muscled body out of the booth with a quiet sigh.

"Clint." Steve turned to his best friend, already pushing against his side with shaking hands, "That's Brock."

Clint understood immediately, sliding out of the booth fast enough for Steve to match Bucky's speed.

Without putting much thought into what he was doing, Steve was up in seconds, bolting around Bucky's towering figure to stand between the still oblivious Brock and Bucky.

Bucky looked down at Steve, eyebrows knitting together. "Steve, move." He muttered, his voice still soft with confusion.

When Steve silently refused, Bucky took a step to the side just to be cut off by Steve again.

"Don't go." Steve pleaded with Bucky quietly, trying to avoid drawing too much attention to them, "Leave him alone."

"Steve." Bucky sounded disappointed- he probably thought Steve was defending Brock, "He's harassing that gal. I ain't gonna let him do that. He's a scumbag! He thinks he can take what doesn't belong to him. I might not be able to beat the shit out of him during school events, but I sure as hell can do it now."

"Bucky don't do this!" Steve's voice cracked.

Bucky's puzzled expression morphed into an unsettling frown. "Stay out of my way, Steve." With that, Bucky placed two hands on Steve's shoulders, pushing the blond out of the way and clearing his path. Not even when Steve stumbled to the side did Bucky slow down.

Frozen where he stood, helpless and shaking, Steve watched Bucky approach Brock.

Steve felt hurt. He hated being dismissed by people in general, but being brushed-off by Bucky? That was a whole different calibre. It didn't make him angry, it just made him unbearably _sad_. It made him feel small and weak, forlorn and unimportant. It reminded Steve of all his doubts and of all the horrible things Brock had told him when he'd beaten him up.

"Rumlow!" Bucky's voice was low and rough, and it sent a shudder down Steve's back.

Brock looked startled at first, his surprise loosening his grip on the waitress enough so that she could pull her wrist free of him and vanish into the kitchen.

By the time the waitress was gone, Brock had recovered from his surprise and was smirking, looking Bucky up and down contemptuously. "Well if it isn't Avenger Academy's pretty boy. What can I help you with, Barnes?"

"How about you stop harassing people and piss off?" Bucky retorted edgily.

Steve desperately wanted to see Bucky's face but because he was facing away from Steve; all Steve could see was the hard line to Bucky's back and the way he was kneading his hands at his sides.

"Why so hostile, sweetheart?" Brock drawled spitefully, taking a step closer to Bucky.

Bucky mirrored the movement, increasing the distance between them again, much to Brock's amusement.

"Is this because of that message I sent you?"

Steve winced, wrapping his arms around his torso protectively.

"Steve? You alright?"

Steve didn't look at Clint, but it didn't take long before he felt Clint's arms wrap around him comfortingly.

Clint's movement had caught Brock's eye and he looked over at them. His eyes widened with temporary surprise before he called out to them. "There he is!" Brock's smirk twisted into a grin when he saw Steve flinch.

Bucky looked over his shoulder at Steve, anger and confusion dancing across his features like lightning in the night sky. "What message, Brock? And what does Steve have to do with this? He a friend of yours?"

"Fuck no!" Brock's eyes found Bucky again, "I wasn't sure if you'd care much," He began, feigning innocence, "I told him you probably wouldn't."

"What do you mean?" Bucky's voice was tighter, deeper, rumbling with a warning, "What did you do?"

"The message." Brock cocked his head to the side, his smirk bending into a crooked grin, "Didn't you see it? It's written all over that dipshit's body. But like I said-." Brock's voice cut off with a crack when Bucky wrapped a hand around his throat.

Sam jumped up, alarmed and visibly astonished by the sudden shift in Bucky.

Steve still couldn't see Bucky's face, couldn't see what he was feeling, but Bucky was holding on tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His second hand found Brock's tank top, his fingers entwining with the soft-looking black material.

"You really gonna do this in here?" Brock croaked, forcing out a laugh despite his constricted trachea.

Bucky growled but didn't reply. Instead, he shoved Brock towards the exit.

Steve only realised then that Brock must be intoxicated, because he went with Bucky almost willingly, mild complaints and insults making their way over his lips in the process.

"We gotta go!" Sam's voice ripped through Steve's paralysing panic.

Steve tried to respond, but he was still to shaken up to do much more than stare at the door through which Bucky had just disappeared through.

"Now!" Sam exclaimed, taking a hold of Steve's wrist and yanking him towards the exit.

"Go!" Clint exclaimed, "I'll go let the waitress know that we'll be back!"

As soon as he stepped outside, Steve was greeted by the familiar sound of knuckles hitting bone.

His head swivelled around until he caught sight of Bucky standing in front of the darkened entrance to the pharmacy next to the diner. Brock was leaning against the red brick wall, eyes half-lidded and a weak smirk dancing on his lips.

Bucky's stance was that of a boxer, his footing steady, his knees slightly bent. His right hand was lifted to cover his face; his left one was being pulled back after a punch.

"You did that?!" Bucky yelled, "Did you fucking hurt Steve?"

Steve's heart stuttered. He felt completely helpless in the face of the overwhelming emotions bubbling up inside of him.

This was not how things were supposed to go…

Sam and Clint, who had caught up to them in no time, were standing around Steve protectively, both pairs of eyes watching the exchange intently. Sam was standing a little farther forward, as if gauging whether or not Bucky needed assistance.

"I hurt him, yeah." Brock sneered, pushing himself away from the wall and stepping into Bucky's space provocatively, "I gotta say, I didn't expect the piece of shit to cry so quickly."

Bucky's face went even darker and his eyes dimmed dangerously. His jaw was set, and he was grinding his teeth so much that Steve could hear it. His body, despite his obvious experience as a boxer, was stiff, coiled tight like a spring.

"I'm going to kill you." That was the only warning Bucky gave before a left hook smashed into Brock's temple. The slightly taller man keeled over, his body going limp long enough for him not to be able to break his fall, his body plummeting to the ground with a thump. Steve knew exactly when Brock zoned back in because, much like Steve had, his hands scraped over the ground, trying to lift his torso up whilst his mind tried to regain his bearings.

Bucky was already moving again, hands grabbing onto Brock's shirt before strong arms heaved him up and pinned the larger man against the wall.

"Why did you do it?" Bucky asked Brock, his voice raspy with anger.

"I…" Brock coughed, his head lolling back against the wall, "I was looking for ya. The shithead didn't wanna tell me where you were. 'Said I wasn't the type of company you'd keep. That little piece of-."

In one movement, Bucky threw Brock to the floor. Steve winced when the large man's shoulder hit the floor hard and his body crumpled under the pain.

When Bucky turned, the light from a streetlamp illuminated his face enough to show the full extent of the anger pouring off of him in heavy waves.

Steve swallowed, biting down on his bottom lip, fighting back the wave of frustrated tears that wanted to drown him by spilling to the surface.

This was not what Steve had wanted. He didn't like bullies which meant that he didn't like Brock, but he also didn't like seeing Bucky like this. He wanted the gentle Bucky back; the one that had told him that he looked good in his shirt. He wanted the relaxed, easy-going Bucky that was always up for a good laugh. He wanted the Bucky that looked at his pancakes as though they had hung the moon in the sky just for him.

Not for the first time in the past month, Steve desperately wanted to turn back time.

"He did _nothing _to you." Bucky snarled, "Did he even defend himself?!"

When Brock shook his head, obviously unable to speak through his gritted teeth, Bucky was moving again. His knees hit the concrete on each side of Brock's torso, and he pinned the large athlete down by straddling him with his legs. One hand, his right one, came to rest firmly against his collarbone, stretching out to cover as much skin as possible. Something foreign and cruel flashed across Bucky's face and he leant forward until his face was only a few inches away from Brock's. "I am going to fuck you up Brock."

As soon as he'd straightened up again, his dominant hand, the left one, pulled back.

Steve didn't hear anything anymore. It was like his senses had gone completely numb with only his eyes taking in the livid look on Bucky's face. He wished he couldn't see the way Bucky's left fist came down on Brock's face over and over and over again. He wished he could forget what Bucky looked like when he was that angry.

He wished he could-.

"Buck stop!" Steve's voice cut through the tension in the air and Bucky froze mid-punch.

A gruelling moment passed before he let his hand drop, blinking down at Brock a few times as if waking up from a trance. Then, slowly, he lifted his head to look at Steve.

Steve was working his jaw, desperately determined not to let his emotions get the better of him. Nevertheless, he was so _upset._ This was not what he wanted. This was not what he wanted to bring out in Bucky. This was _his _fault- he'd caused this. He'd caused all of this by messing with Bucky's mind by kissing him. He should never have gone to that party. He should never have gone up to Bucky's room. He should never have spoken to Bucky after the party. He should never have agreed to going out with Sam, Bucky and Clint.

"Oh my God." Steve breathed out. With the sudden lack of tension in Steve's body, his knees buckled, and he sunk to the ground.

The distraught look on Steve's face seemed to be the last push required to snap Bucky back to reality. His eyes went wide, and his mouth fell open. He looked between a limp Brock and a distraught Steve a few times before scrambling to his feet and rushing over to Steve. For the second time that night, Bucky was on his knees, this time to comfort instead of harm. "Steve. Stevie I'm so sorry!"

In an explosion of impulsivity, Steve's frustration and sadness tipped over into anger and he shoved Bucky away, causing the larger student to fall over. "I told you not to!" Steve yelled, his vision going blurry with the threat of tears, "I _asked _you not to Bucky!"

"I know Stevie." Bucky was propping himself up again, settling onto his haunches. His eyes were soft again, just the way Steve had come to know and love them. Still, the image of Bucky's rage was burnt into Steve's retinas like a brand. "You never even asked why!" Steve went on hysterically, "Maybe I just really wanted to enjoy the meal! Maybe I didn't want all of this to end in a bloody fight?! But no, you wanted a fight _so _bad, didn't ya Buck?!"

"That's not-."

"It wasn't even _about _me! You were just looking for a reason to punch him, regardless of whether the waitress would end up being your reason or whether I would be.

"Steve-."

"No Bucky! I don't want to hear none of that! Brock was right- you don't give a damn about me!"

"That's a lie!" Bucky managed to cut in, "Doll I swear-."

Steve bristled. "Don't call me that!" He yelled, backing away from Bucky helplessly.

"Steve, please…" He held out a hand, his fingertips falling just short of touching Steve's knee.

"No Buck!"

"_Please _Stevie. Don't do this."

* * *

Aaaand there you go! Such drama. But still, I hope you liked it! I'll be posting the next chapter soon! Please do let me know what you think and thanks for stopping by!


	13. Chapter 13

Part two of our little Rumlow confrontation coming up! I really hope you like it!  
Also, I hope you are all having a great day! 

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Bucky's mind was racing so fast that it in turn stumbled, foregoing certain thoughts while trying to grasp onto others. A headache was blooming behind his temples, but he ignored it stubbornly, too focused on Steve to worry about the persistent throb at the sides of his head. He didn't even care that Sam was still right there witnessing Bucky at what was definitely his lowest since the time that Dorothy had broken up with him a week before his high school prom.

Steve was glaring at him, wordlessly daring Bucky to continue arguing. His vibrating little body seemed almost unable to contain all of the emotion gushing out of the oceans behind his irises. His brow was furrowed, drawing a dark line of distress between his blond eyebrows.

All the while Bucky was struggling, near to frantically, to find the words he needed to calm Steve down. Every sentence he fabricated in his mind, every scenario that he let play out in front of his mind's eye ended up with Steve being more upset than he already clearly was. Steve didn't want Bucky to talk. He didn't want to hear what he thought were excuses while all Bucky wanted to tell Steve was the truth! Frustration crashed into sadness and worry like a wave crashing against a jagged cliff, foaming and spitting angrily while the rock stayed, unmoved, where it was.

It wasn't fair! He hadn't done anything wrong! He'd only meant to defend Steve! How was that a bad thing? How did it warrant Steve looking at him like he was? As though _he _was the bad guy in this scenario instead of Rumlow.

As if the unfairness of the situation wasn't bad enough already, deep within his frazzled mind, a little voice was telling Bucky that he deserved every last ounce of the discomfort the look on Steve's face was causing him. Bucky's mind wandered to the pain radiating from his scraped knees and his bloodied knuckles and that too, said the voice, was something that he deserved; because he had upset Steve when all he should have been doing was take care of him.

He couldn't clearly remember the exact moment he'd flown off the handle. He remembered the infuriating way that Brock had smirked at Steve and the way the latter had shrunk in on himself in response. He remembered joining the dots, that Brock was the cause of Steve's bruises and the distressed look in his eyes. Then all he could remember was a sudden, blistering flash of rage that had washed over him, turning his vision a blurry red and urging his hands into fists that wanted nothing more than to _hurt _Brock. And then the next thing Bucky knew, Steve was upset, sitting across from him on the filthy sidewalk in front of the pharmacy.

Quietly, like the sound of a running river, the whispers of the city hung above their heads, dispersing some of the tension in the air- making it less palpable.

A miserable groan sounded behind Bucky and it startled him into sitting up a little straighter.

An idea crossed Bucky's mind and although he would rather be punched in the face instead of executing said idea, he knew that it was his best bet at making up with Steve.

Ignoring the way his body made itself feel heavy in protest, Bucky averted his gaze from Steve, looking instead at Clint and Sam who were standing off to the side, watching the encounter with rapt attention. When Bucky's eyes met Sam's, the latter nodded encouragingly. Sam knew Bucky well enough to know what he was planning and obviously, he wholeheartedly agreed with what Bucky' was planning to do.

"Sam. Throw me my phone, will ya?" Bucky's voice sounded strained, rougher than it usually was, disintegrating into a soundless sigh of vexation.

"Sure, man." Sam replied, pulling out Bucky's phone from his jeans pocket and throwing it over to Bucky who caught it. He had to supress a wince when his hands wrapped around the mobile gingerly and his knuckles groaned, resenting being moved.

Bucky wished he could procrastinate long enough for the whole situation to clear up by itself, but he'd be damned if he made Steve wait that long. That little voice was back, a little louder now, reminding Bucky that all of this was his fault and it was just as much his responsibility to make things right again. If there was a different little voice telling him that it wasn't all his fault, he ignored it.

Clenching his jaw, Bucky opened up the Uber app, ordering an Uber to their current location for one person.

Bucky felt uncomfortable, like a dog being combed against its hairline. He didn't look at Steve when he got up, neither did he look at Steve when he strode over to where Rumlow was busy trying to prop himself up meekly.

The dark-brown haired Hydra student flinched when Bucky came to a standstill in front of him.

Secretly, Bucky took comfort in knowing that he'd left his mark. "I ordered you an Uber." Bucky muttered, trying his hardest to keep the anger out of his voice, "It should be here in a couple of minutes. Can you stand?"

Brock craned his neck to peer up at Bucky through half-lidded eyes. "Think so." He grumbled, puzzled eyes watching Bucky for a moment longer before he looked down at the floor again.

Bucky wanted to punch him again _so badly_.

Brock shoved his hands underneath his heavy torso, huffing and puffing while he heaved himself onto his knees. "Are ya just gonna stand there looking stupid or are ya actually gonna help me?" Brock snapped, looking at Bucky again. He didn't look quite as docile as he had a moment ago, the fire of malice having returned to his murky brown eyes.

The hackles on the back of Bucky's neck stood up but he swallowed his anger to instead hold out his hand to help Brock to his feet.

Smirking, Brock accepted Bucky's hand, purposefully wrapping his larger hand around Bucky's knuckles and _squeezing. _

A groan bubbled in Bucky's chest and he had to bite down on his tongue to stop the sound of pain from surfacing. His eyes met Brock's only to find the other man watching Bucky intently, searching for any signs of discomfort.

Bucky forced his lips into a smile, schooling his features to display nothing but friendliness. "Do you think you can get home by yourself? Or do you want me to call you an ambulance?" Bucky was surprised to find that his voice mirrored the kindness that his face was expressing.

"I don't need a babysitter you moron!" Brock growled, notably irritated by Bucky's unexpected reaction to his taunts.

Despite his best efforts to stay calm, Bucky bristled but instead of indulging his insatiable urge to break Brock's jaw, he shoved his hands into the flimsy pockets of his cardigan. "Just want to make sure you get home safe, that's all." Bucky insisted, "Wouldn't want ya to pass out on the way."

Brock made a non-comical noise but didn't comment any further, busying himself by cleaning dirt off of his worn leather jacket and his expensive-looking ripped jeans.

* * *

Bucky startled back to reality when the glaring headlights of a Toyota Prius illuminated the road that they were standing next to. He couldn't help the way his eyes found Brock's face, admiring the work his still-aching hands had done. The patchy skin covering Brock's face was red and bulgy, spotted with angry purple bruises and lacerations lined with dried blood. Brock's right eye must have gotten the brunt of it because it was swollen shut, a dark bruise already blooming across the sensitive skin around his eye.

Bucky had to work hard to bite back a satisfied smirk because he knew that Steve was watching him- he could feel it. Steve's gaze was like a hot coal running over his skin, making him feel antsy and uncomfortable in a way that Bucky was entirely unfamiliar with. It wasn't the sort of uncomfortable that he had felt sitting in front of Steve's art class under the full scrutiny of a bunch of artists. It also wasn't the sort of uncomfortable he would get when he messed up a play during a football match and he had to face an angry crowd screaming his name. It was… something else…

As soon as the Uber had come to a standstill against the low curb, Brock stirred next to Bucky. He stumbled forward a few steps gracelessly before his balance set out and he titled. Being the closest to Brock, Bucky knew that it was up to him to catch him, although Bucky would much rather have watched him fall to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Reluctantly, his arm wound around Brock's upper waist, supporting him as best as he could until Brock finally regained his balance. Brock smelt of a disgusting mix of alcohol and cold cigarette ash that clung to his leather jacket and his hair. Taking shallow breaths, Bucky put more weight into his arm and began forcing Brock towards the waiting Uber.

When they passed Steve, Bucky made sure to position himself between Steve and Brock. It occurred to him then that he still hadn't looked at Steve again. Not even while they walked past Steve did he look at him. As soon as the car was in reach, Brock broke away from Bucky, catching himself on the car's roof.

Just when Bucky thought that it was finally over, and that Brock would just get into the car and leave, the Hydra student turned around to face Bucky, a shit-eating grin plastered on his swollen face.

"Don't you think it's time to go?" Bucky prompted Brock tightly, trying his best to ignore the coil of anger unravelling in his chest like a hot rod of iron.

"Sure, sure." Brock shrugged nonchalantly, "Just wanted to thank you for paying for my Uber. Who knew you could be so chivalrous, eh Barnes? But I guess that's what happens when a goodie-goodie makes you his bitch."

Bucky had to physically force himself to stand still and not lash out. His temper was rising like boiling water, threatening to spill over the edges and scald. His breathing became shallow and he bit down on his tongue, hoping the pain would ground him.

"Move."

Bucky's mind screeched to a halt and the lack of response from his brain led his body to respond on instinct. He took a step to the side dumbly, wide eyes finding the much shorter Steve. If Bucky had been a little more coherent, he probably would have been able to stop Steve in time, but as things were, he stood by uselessly while Steve planted his bony fist right in the middle of Brock's face. A thud was followed by a crack and then Brock was reeling backwards, stumbling against the car. His hands were covering his now bleeding nose and his one visible eye was watering. He was saying something, probably insulting Steve, but Bucky couldn't understand what he was saying from behind blood and flesh.

"I think it's time for you to go." Steve muttered darkly, folding his hands behind his back and glaring at Brock as though he wanted to lynch him.

Brock attempted a few more gurgled insults before yanking open the car door and disappearing inside.

Then he was gone, the Uber taking him out of Bucky and Steve's hands- finally.

Bucky made a sound of relief, his shoulders slumping and his back relaxing. He could feel a knot that he hadn't notice before, unwind in his stomach and he licked his lips, taking a moment to centre himself and let his mind assess and file everything he had just witnessed.

Steve's punch had been a terrible one. His hand had hit at an awkward angle, twisting his wrist and-.

"Show me your hand." Bucky turned to Steve, holding out his own hurt hand demandingly.

Steve stiffened, jutting out his chin defiantly.

"Just show him your hand Steve!" Clint piped up, sounding equal measures exasperated and exhausted.

Steve shot a look of betrayal in Clint's direction before reluctantly holding out his right hand for Bucky to look at.

Steve's hand was a little bigger than Bucky's- his fingers were longer- and yet it somehow fitted into Bucky's hands like a girl's hand would. Pointedly disregarding that thought, Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve' wrist which immediately made the blond flinch.

"You're supposed to tense up your wrist when you punch, you know that right?" Bucky chided gently, half-meaning it as a joke.

Thankfully, Steve took it as one because he rolled his eyes.

"Don't know if you know this," Sam chipped in loudly, "but Bucky's a boxer. He's an expert when it comes to punching things."

"Yeah, I saw that." Steve deadpanned.

"And I saw that you ain't no good at punching." Bucky retorted edgily. His jab seemed to be genuine enough to drown Steve's anger because he settled into a look of silent protest while he let Bucky examine his wrist and his fingers with gentle touches.

"What's your verdict?" Sam asked finally, edging a little closer to get a better look at Steve's hand.

"I think he sprained it." Bucky said, cocking his eyebrow at Steve when the blond looked up at him with a shocked look, "You should probably keep it still for a while."

"I'm right-handed!" Steve protested, his rough voice coming out louder and more frantic than he had probably intended judging by the way his cheeks turned a slightly darker shade of red almost immediately after he had spoken.

"That's a real sad story Stevie but you went and hurt your hand, there's no getting around that. You gotta give your wrist some time to recuperate if you want it to get better quickly."

Steve's mouth opened and closed but he evidently couldn't find the right words of protest that he was looking for. Eventually, he gave up, crossing his arms across his chest carefully and biting his lip.

The anxious look on Steve's face made Bucky feel nauseous. "I have an idea!" he blurted out, "I have some stuff that could help at home if you wanna stop by my place before you head home?" Inexplicably, once the words had left his mouth, Bucky felt his heartbeat quicken and he began teetering from one foot to the other nervously.

Steve wavered, looking lost in thought for an excruciatingly long moment before he lifted his eyes to look at Bucky hopefully. "Will it help?"

"I've hurt my wrists often enough to know how to help ya. So yeah, it's gonna help."

A decision flashed across Steve face and he nodded determinedly before turning to Clint. "You wanna go on ahead? You have class early tomorrow anyway, so I'd hate to keep you up."

"Are you sure you'll be fine?" Clint asked, eyes darting to Bucky briefly before finding Steve again.

"I'll make sure to bring him home before too late, sir." Bucky smirked, appreciating the twitch of Steve's lips at his joke. Even Clint seemed mildly amused by the joke but his worry over Steve won in the end, painting a frown onto his face.

"I'll take care of the tab, so you guys can head off already." Sam added, clapping a hand on Bucky's shoulder and squeezing, "Also Bucky? Make sure you sort out your hands before practice tomorrow? Coach might just kill you if he finds out you got into a fist fight."

Briefly, Bucky felt his stomach drop. He imagined running laps around the field in the blistering sun. He pictured himself cleaning the showers and the toilets… He nodded vehemently, making a mental note to not forget about his hands under any circumstances. "Thanks for the reminder Sam." Bucky offered Sam a nervous smile, "Also… I'm really sorry for causing a scene."

"Are you kidding?" Clint piped up, "This is the most exciting thing I've witnessed since your party! And besides, the creep had it coming!"

"I agree with Clint, man." Sam chimed, sliding his hand across Bucky's shoulder to pull him into a one-armed hug, "You just did what you thought was right, can't no one fault you for that."

But Steve had. Bucky wanted to risk a glance at Steve to gauge his reaction to Sam's statement, but he managed to stop himself, grinning at Clint and Sam instead. "Thanks guys. I will make it up to you though!"

"Hey, I wouldn't complain if you were up for another night out at the diner." Clint shrugged.

His faked nonchalance coupled with the what he'd said managed to elicit a startled laugh from Bucky that undid a knot deep within his chest. Finally, Bucky felt like he could breathe easier again.

"You know what? I think that'd be pretty damn swell." Bucky agreed wholeheartedly.

Clint gave him an agreeing nod before turning his attention to Steve who was standing next to the group silently, watching the encounter with a guarded look on his face. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" Clint enquired softly, placing a hand on Steve's upper arm.

"I'll message you when I leave Bucky's." Steve promised him quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a manner similar to the one Bucky had adopted ever since inviting Steve over to his house.

"You'd better not forget, otherwise I might just send out a search party." Clint warned Steve, making it sound like a joke, but Bucky could tell that the concern behind his words was real.

"I'll drive him back to the campus after we're done." Bucky chipped in, giving Clint the most reassuring look that he could muster up, despite feeling as emotionally taxed as he did. In fact, all he really wanted to do was crawl underneath his blanket and wait for sleep to free him from the burdening thoughts weighing on his mind.

"Thanks Bucky." Clint looked a little more at ease, giving Steve a quick hug before stepping back, silently giving Bucky his permission. If anything, the gesture made Bucky like Clint more than he already did. The goofy blonde was a good friend and God knows Steve needed friends like Clint to help him out of all the crap he managed to get himself into. Bucky was glad that Steve had found that friend in Clint.

"Want to come with me to pay the tab and then I'll bring you to the next subway station?" Sam offered, jerking his head towards an old Mustang standing under one of the lanterns illuminating the parking lot in front of the diner.  
"Don't have to ask me twice." The two waved at Bucky and Steve before heading to the diner, chatting to one another loudly as though nothing was amiss. And maybe there wasn't, maybe Bucky hadn't messed up after all?

"You ready to go, Stevie?"

Steve nodded.

"My car's over there." Bucky gestured to the parking lot vaguely and Steve nodded again, falling into stride next to Bucky as soon as he'd started walking.

* * *

And there you go! I really hope you enjoyed it! It was a little shorter than my normal chapter length but I hope you liked it nonetheless!  
See you next time! And don't forget to leave a review to let me know what you thought!


	14. Chapter 14

Hey guys!  
I'm sorry it's been so long since I posted. I didn't really feel comfortable with posting anything in the past few months with everything going on. Instead, I used the time to reflect and educate myself. I hope all of you are doing well!  
So let's get right back into where we left off! This chapter takes place directly after the Rumlow confrontation!

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Steve shifted uneasily in the leather passenger seat of Bucky's car. The radio was playing quietly in the background, disbursing the silence. It helped; kept Steve's thoughts a little quieter; kept him from panicking.

Bucky didn't try to start a conversation, which Steve was grateful for. Instead, he kept his eyes on the road, guiding the Chevrolet through the relatively quiet streets of New York, heading towards the outskirts of the city.

Steve leaned his elbow against the armrest, bending his neck until his temple came to rest against the cool side of the door. His eyes watched the scenery outside, hanging onto people they passed before snapping to the next object of interest. He continued to do this, hoping to occupy his mind until they arrived at Bucky's house and Steve would have to face the music. He'd caught a glimpse of the dashboard clock on Bucky's car while getting in, knowing now that it was rapidly approaching midnight which explained while the streets were a lot emptier than Steve had anticipated. His throbbing wrist was cradled in his lap, held steady with his left hand while the car jolted over potholes and glided around corners.

Once they got to the outskirts of the city and high-rises were replaced by houses and parks, Steve turned his attention away from the window. Bucky's car had numerous sources of indirect lighting, glowing a soft blue. The stick of the automatic was lit up by the same colour, the N, D and P illuminated to make them easier to see in the dark. The bottom of the glove compartment was fitted with lights as well, engulfing Steve's worn Converse in blue light and making the red canvas material look more like a distorted purple.

"We're almost there." Bucky voice was deafening in the almost-quiet of the small space.

Steve hadn't wanted to know. He'd planned on denying the inevitable for as long as possible. The knowledge of nearly being at Bucky's house again and probably having to go up to his room again made Steve feel sick to the stomach. He tried to twist his fingers together only to seize the action immediately when a jolt of pain spread out from his wrist, traveling up his arm and into the tips of his fingers.

If Bucky noticed the way Steve flinched, he chose not to comment on it.

The car pulled into the same driveway that Steve remembered. He also remembered seeing the car he was currently seated in on the night of the party, he just hadn't assumed that it would belong to a student. The Chevrolet came to a smooth halt underneath the provided roof, next to a large four-wheel drive. "Here we are." Bucky muttered, and Steve assumed that he was doing it to fill the awkward silence now that the radio was off. "Yeah." Which was also the reason Steve chose to reply.

Leaving the car behind where it stood safely tucked away and locked, Steve followed Bucky to the impressive front door. All of the lights in the house were off, meaning that Bucky's family, provided they were home, were all asleep already. This was further confirmed when Bucky pushed the key into the look as quietly as he could, turning the key slowly until the door gave a soft click of approval.

"My parents are asleep." Bucky said, looking at Steve over his shoulder, "My little sister _should _be asleep too but she's a light sleeper. We gotta keep quiet if we don't wanna wake her."

"Okay, sure." Steve nodded, licking his lips in a nervous habit. He allowed his mind to settle on the fact that Bucky had two parents and a sister- a full family. A sense of envy welled-up in Steve's chest and he indulged it only as long as it took them to slip inside before pushing those thoughts aside.

They left their shoes in the entrance hall, pushing them into a shoe cupboard off to the side. Then, on tiptoes, they made their way up the same stairwell as they had the night of the party. Without his shoes on, Steve could feel how soft the carpet covering the stairs was. He was tempted to bend down and feel it with his hands. The urge to do so was abruptly interrupted when memories of the party started to filter through, playing out in front of his mind's eye like a sepia movie. He tried to fight off the sense of déjà vu gripping onto him; tried to tell himself that things were different now, but somehow, he couldn't shake the stifling sense of unease he was feeling.

Ahead of him, Bucky was moving smoothly, his well-trained muscles working obediently under the unconscious commands his brain was sending through his body. Steve couldn't see the way the muscles in Bucky's back were working this time, not through the leather jacket, and Steve had to begrudgingly admit that he thought it a shame.

Just like the last time he'd walked along the corridor, Steve couldn't admire the artwork hung up on the walls; not for lack of time, but for lack of lighting. The sparse amount of lighting filtering through the cracks beneath doors and curtained windows cast long shadows, catching the frames of pictures and the bulbs of lamps hanging uselessly overhead.

Bucky stopped in front of his closed bedroom door, turning to face Steve. Again, the lack of good lighting hid details from Steve's vision-impaired eyes and he couldn't make out the look on Bucky's face well enough, so he waited.  
"I gotta go get the first aid kit." Bucky whispered, leaning in closer to Steve, "You go ahead. You… know the place anyway." There was a glaring hesitance in Bucky's voice, a falter of tone that said more than his face probably did in that moment. Steve's mind tripped over the new piece of information helplessly, trying not to read too much into what he was perceiving. Steve swallowed, nodding first, but when he wasn't sure if Bucky could see it, he muttered a quiet, "Yeah sure Buck."

Then Bucky was gone, disappearing through the door opposite to his which seemed to lead to a bathroom.

Steve's good hand settled against the flat of his stomach as though he could somehow calm the butterflies in his stomach with it. For a brief moment, all he did was stand there, staring at Bucky's bedroom door.

He couldn't forget what he had felt the first time he'd walked into Bucky's room, following a giddy football player intent on fixing a mistake he had made in his drunken state. Yet again, Steve told himself that this time would be different- Bucky knew who he was now, he wasn't drunk, and Steve wasn't overwhelmed by dancing people and loud music.

He sucked in a breath to compose himself before pushing down on the door handle slowly, pausing when it gave a quiet squeak of protest before pushing it all the way down and opening the door. Steve was secretly impressed by how quiet the hinges on Bucky's door were- they must oil them regularly.

Once through the door, Steve was greeted by the familiar sight of Bucky's room albeit curtained by darkness, and the even more familiar smell of Bucky. Despite himself, Steve felt his lips twitch into a smile. He headed towards Bucky's bed, taking a seat gingerly and preparing himself for whatever was about to happen.

Just then, Bucky slipped through the narrow crack Steve had left before turning to close the door quietly. "You could have put on some lights, you know." He commented and a moment later, the light came on.

"I didn't know where the light switch was." Steve insisted, trying his best to sound as aloof as possible although the huff he got from Bucky in response made him wonder whether he'd succeeded. Steve's eyes followed Bucky, watching him cross the room and take a seat on the edge of the bed in front of Steve. He sat with his one leg angled on top of the bed with the other hanging off the edge.

Steve offered Bucky his hand as soon as the brunette had set out the first-aid kit beside him on the comforter. Just like he had at the diner, Bucky poked and prodded it a little; turned it this way and that, testing out where it hurt the most and whether it was swollen anywhere. Steve made quiet noises of protest, wincing once or twice when the movement Bucky was demanding hurt in particular, but he trusted Bucky allowing him to do whatever he deemed necessary. If all of this meant that he would be able to draw again, then he'd sit through it regardless of how much it hurt.

"I'm gonna put some muscle relaxant ointment on. It should help with the pain." Bucky told Steve, his voice level and almost clinical.

Steve gave his permission with silence, watching Bucky pull out a silver and red tube of ointment that he proceeded to layer onto Steve's wrist. The touch hurt, and Steve had to grit his teeth to stop any embarrassing noises from leaving his mouth.

"It's important that you don't stiffen up your wrist too much. I know that's easier said than done because it hurts, but if your muscles get stiff because you're tense, then it'll take even longer to get better."

"Alright. Thanks. The cream should help with that though, right?" Steve asked, simply for the sake of giving Bucky some sort of vocal response.

Bucky nodded. It didn't take long for him to finish and after a while, Steve felt heat spread out across his wrist where the cream was. Despite the discomfort the heat on his skin caused, he could feel the way it soothed his muscles and it made him want to sigh.

"Just gonna let that soak in before putting on a bandage."

"Thanks." Steve muttered, looking down at his wrist. His skin shimmered with the ointment.

What followed was an uncomfortable, burdened silence filled with unspoken words and emotions that were almost palpable, making the air feel heavy in Steve's lungs. He wasn't angry at Bucky, not anymore, but there were still some unanswered questions buzzing around in Steve's mind. Every time he let his mind wander, his thoughts would circle back to the way Bucky had brushed him off at the diner and regardless of how hard Steve tried not to let it get to him, it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Why'd you punch him, Stevie?" Bucky's voice had gone from clinical to exasperated and it jolted Steve out of his thoughts, urging him to look at Bucky to make sure he hadn't misheard.

Bucky was frowning, his lips pursed and his hands lying restlessly in his lap.

"What he said wasn't okay." Steve replied weakly. He knew what it looked like: he had been angry at Bucky for punching Rumlow and then he had gone and done the same thing. Maybe not to the same extent that Bucky had but that didn't mean he hadn't wanted to. The things Rumlow had said, the things that he had implied- he didn't want Bucky to be confronted with that again, not when he was so obviously still wrestling with what had happened at the party. Even right then, while they were sitting on his bed whilst the ointment soaked into Steve's wrist, Steve could see the same conflict playing out on Bucky's handsome face. He looked tortured, confused, his expression an echo of the one he had worn when Steve had gotten up to leave him after their kiss.

"What he said didn't matter, Stevie." Bucky insisted.

"It mattered to me!" Steve retorted, his thoughts fuelling his frustration, "I know you ain't like that. You're not like me Buck and I'm pretty sure you don't want people going around saying stuff like that about you. Not with your reputation to uphold!"

There was a shift in Bucky's broad shoulders and his face hardened alarmingly. "I don't give a damn about my reputation Steve. Never have." He growled, visibly trying to keep his voice down, "The only thing I gave a damn about tonight is the fact that that good for nothing dumbass hurt you. I beat him up to make sure he never lays a finger on you again. That's why I didn't listen to ya when you asked me to stop- God knows I feel bad 'bout it now- but I was so _mad _that he'd do something like that to you of all people and I had to make sure... I just don't want something like that to happen to you again is all."

Faced with the sincerity of Bucky's words and the pained, puzzled look dancing across Bucky's softening features, Steve felt like a complete idiot. He realised that he had been the one to complicate the situation. If he hadn't been too scared to hear Bucky out instead of telling him to stop talking then they could have sorted things out a lot sooner and Bucky wouldn't have had to embarrass himself in front of Brock Rumlow.

"I'm sorry." Steve said, meeting Bucky's eyes to make sure the latter understood how earnest he was being, "I should have let you tell me sooner. I was-."

"Pissed off. I get it." Bucky cut in, smirking brokenly when Steve shot him a glare for interrupting him. His gaze flicked from Steve's eyes to his wrist. The pale skin covering Steve's thin wrist was no longer oily, the cream having soaked into his skin completely. Nodding approvingly, Bucky took Steve's arm gently, placing it in his lap to continue the treatment. "Just glad you're not mad anymore." Bucky admitted off-handedly.

"I wasn't really mad." Steve admitted, sinking in on himself when Bucky paused what he was doing to shoot a quizzical look at Steve, "I've never really been on the winning side of any fight." Steve began, allowing Bucky's gentle touches to comfort him while he went on, "And before my Ma passed away, my Dad used to hurt her 'real bad. Every time I spoke to her afterwards and asked her why she kept getting back up, she told me that as soon as you start running away, you'll never stop. I don't like getting into fights but if I have to, I will. I wasn't strong enough back then to stick up for my Mom; I'm still not really strong enough to stick up for anyone but I try. I have to." Steve pinched his eyes closed, realising that he'd digressed and shared more than he had meant to, "What I'm trying to say is… seeing you like that was just kind of a shock and it brought back some rough memories."

"I'm sorry Stevie." Bucky said softly, pausing to retrieve a dark blue bandage from the first-aid kit, "I didn't mean to scare ya."

"I know." Steve assured him, "I get that now."

"I'm glad." Bucky smiled, ducking his head a little as if to see Steve's hand better, "I was considering buying you flowers or something to say sorry." Bucky's voice was overflowing with mirth and Steve smiled, huffing a silent laugh. He watched Bucky wrap the bandage around his wrist carefully. Out of nowhere, a sense of melancholy took a hold of Steve and he had to look away. He had to begrudgingly admit that he was jealous of whichever girl would eventually win Bucky's heart. He was sad that he wasn't going to be the one Bucky would fight for and that he wouldn't be allowed to enjoy Bucky's company in the same way that he wanted to. Feeling Bucky's gentle touches and watching the way he kept his eyes attentively on what he was doing, careful not to hurt Steve more than he absolutely had to, made Steve's chest flood with warmth. He wanted to wrap his arms around Bucky and hold onto him and apologize for falling for him and tell him that he _couldn't help it_, especially not when Bucky was being so kind to him.

"All done." Bucky announced triumphantly, brushing his hand over the bandage to smooth out the edges.

"Thanks." Steve muttered, inspecting Bucky's work half-heartedly, if only to give himself something to do. Bucky watched Steve for a brief moment, smiling lightly, before shifting uncomfortably. When his eyes found Steve's again, his bravado faltered, and he held out his own hands tentatively before saying, "I don't know if you'll be able to with your wrist, but do you think you could help me with my hands? Usually when I get hurt during matches, my sparring partner T'Challa helps me patch myself up. I'd do it myself but it's kinda difficult to do with just one hand."

Steve wanted to kick himself when he noted the flutter of excitement tickling the walls of his stomach. "Sure, Buck." He spluttered slightly, grasping onto one of Bucky's hands and tugging it towards him a little roughly. There was no way for Bucky to miss Steve's fluster but to Steve's extreme relief, he didn't say anything. Instead, his sharp grey eyes watched Steve patiently, trustingly.

Clearing his throat, Steve averted his attention to the medical kit, retrieving some disinfectant and a solid supply of cotton wool. He tried his best to ignore the irritated rhythm of his heartbeat while he got to work on Bucky's left hand. His knuckles were split badly, the knuckle of his middle finger looking particularly bad, as though it had knocked into one of Brock's teeth. "This is gonna hurt." Steve warned Bucky quietly, dousing a blob of cotton wool in the orange disinfectant liquid before pushing it down on the open wound.

Bucky flinched, hissing through clenched teeth while Steve continued to work.

"Just a little bit more." Steve told Bucky apologetically.

Bucky whined but didn't flinch again. Nevertheless, from the way the tendons in the back of his hand twitched, Steve could tell that he wanted to pull his hand away. "You hit him real' hard, didn't you?" Steve didn't realise that he'd said that out loud until Bucky replied, saying, "Of course I did!" He sounded so indignant that Steve backtracked, making sure that he hadn't said anything that could have offended Bucky. "Well, consider this my way of saying thanks." Steve mumbled. He knew he probably shouldn't be encouraging Bucky's behaviour, but he _did _feel like he should at least thank him for standing up for him the way he had.

"Well, you're doing a real good job Stevie. Wouldn't mind ya looking after me more often if this is how you do it every time."

Steve bit his lip to stop himself from spluttering and bowed his head when he felt his cheeks heat up at an alarming rate. He told himself that Bucky hadn't meant it to sound like he was flirting and that even if he _was _flirting, Bucky enjoyed flirting, whether it had any intention behind it or not.

Willing his hands not to tremble, Steve moved on to Bucky's right hand, hoping that the disinfectant would conceal the fact that his palms were becoming clammy. Just as he had with the first hand, Bucky didn't make a show of the pain he was experiencing at the mercy of the disinfectant. Instead, he clenched his jaw, working it while he watched Steve wipe away the residue from the fist fight.

When Steve moved on to gauze pads and band aids, he felt Bucky's gaze wondering. It felt like a pair of hot coals on his face, searching for something that Steve wasn't sure Bucky really wanted to find. He tried to ignore Bucky's gaze. He tried not to notice how rough Bucky's hands were compared to his own. It was a given, thought Steve. After all, Bucky was a sportsman while Steve was an artist. They were worlds apart- polar opposites living in two completely different realities and yet, here they were, sitting across each other while Steve tended to the wounds Bucky had inflicted on himself in a successful attempt to avenge Steve.

Steve didn't have the strength to punch someone hard enough to cause that much damage to his own hand, so he could only imagine how much the punches themselves must have hurt Bucky and how uncomfortable the split knuckles were under the plasters.

"You don't owe me anything." Steve blurted out. He was startled by his words, by his honesty and even more regretful, wishing he a better hold on his brain-to-mouth filter.

Bucky's response was almost instantaneous: he pulled his hand away, tilting his head while a deep frown drew lines across his forehead and pulled the corners of his mouth downwards. "What the hell's that supposed to mean, Steve?" Bucky asked him tensely. His voice was low and raspy, the way it seemed to get when he was upset.

Steve swallowed, wishing the action would somehow take back his words and shove them as far down into the pit of his stomach as possible where they couldn't do any damage. He considered backtracking and turning his words into a badly-executed joke. The more stubborn side of him however, decided that it was time for Steve to come clean. He took a deep breath before letting it out again slowly, wishing that he could somehow conceal the audible stutter his lungs gave. "After what happened at your party, I just don't want you to feel like you owe me anything."

"Why would I feel like I owe you anything?" Bucky asked carefully.

"Well, because of what happened when you were drunk. I know we talked about it back when I came by during one of your practices, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that you were…" Steve hesitated, registering the growing anger simmering beneath the surface of Bucky's eyes, "I assumed that you were being nice to me because you felt like you had to make it up to me, or because you felt sorry for me."

"-the hell?" Bucky sat back, mouth hanging open in agitated disbelief, "Are you being serious right now Steve?"

Shamefully, Steve nodded his head, wishing, not for the first time, that he could turn back time.

"So… let me get this straight." Bucky went on, running one of his bandaged hands through his short brown hair irately, "You think that all this time…" He shook his head, "You think that I came to your dorm that one time because I felt sorry for you? You think that when I agreed to meet you guys for dinner, that I was doing it because I felt guilty? And you think that I punched Rumlow on what? A freaking whim?!"

Every ounce of conviction that Steve might have still had left, was gone, leaving him with the harrowing realisation of what he had just done. When his words had stayed nothing but wayward thoughts, they hadn't sounded quite as horrible as they had when he'd spoken them. Judging by the angry scowl on Bucky's face, they had sounded just as accusatory and hurtful to him as they had to Steve.

This time it was Steve who was desperately searching for the right words to make things better. He would completely understand if Bucky threw him out and wanted nothing to do with him anymore. His words had been hurtful! He'd put everything Bucky had done in question, basically implied that Bucky was a liar, a fake. He'd taken Bucky's kindness and shoved it right back down his throat.

"It's late," Steve heard Bucky say, "I think I should get you back to your dorm before Clint starts worrying."

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Oh nooooo.  
I do hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you guys think!


	15. Chapter 15

Full disclosure: this was probably one of my favourite chapters to write. I love children and their logic and honestly, Rebecca is amazing!  
So, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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**Chapter 15**

Bucky was on edge. Not even his morning shower had managed to drain some of the tension from his body. He stood, clad in only his briefs, staring at the mirror, trying to figure out why his reflection made him want to punch the mirror until it shattered. Irritated, he took a towel to his hair, rubbing it roughly until the friction the towel caused against his scalp, hurt. He discarded the towel, throwing it over the edge of the bathtub to dry before turning on the ventilator and leaving the humid bathroom. The cool air in the corridor made him shiver. He felt a trail of Goosebumps making its way down his arms and his back, triggering another full-body shudder.

"Who's this, Bucky-bear?"

Bucky stopped short in the doorway to his bedroom, the residue warmth from the shower vanishing when the blood in his veins seemed to freeze. Rebecca was perched on the edge of his freshly made bed, her socked feet dangling in the air. In her small hands, she was holding a very familiar piece of paper with a crease running horizontally through the middle of it.

"Becca put that down!" Bucky snapped. Too loudly. Too angrily.

Rebecca dropped the picture, startled by her brother's show of anger. She pulled her legs up onto the mattress, shuffling towards the middle of the large bed. Then, with a quiet sob, she pulled her legs up to her chest to hide her face behind her knees.

"Shit." Bucky muttered beneath his breath, looking over his shoulder to check whether his outburst had alerted his parents. He'd be in hell's kitchen if his parents found out that he'd yelled at his sister. The only sound he heard though, was his sister crying. He stepped clear of the doorway, closing his bedroom door before hurrying over to his bed to comfort her. "Becca, I'm so sorry." He whispered, wrapping her up in his arms and pulling her onto his lap, "I didn't mean to yell. I'm an idiot, please don't cry."

Her hands were trying to grasp onto something like a shirt but instead, her fingernails only scratched across Bucky's abdomen, tickling and hurting him at the same time. "Yeah." Rebecca muttered into his bare chest, wiping snot and tears all over his freshly cleaned skin when she nuzzled closer to him, "You are an idiot."

"I just got a fright." Bucky explained soothingly, running his hand over the top of her head, "You shout too when you get a fright, remember?"

Sniffling, Becca raised her head to look up at Bucky through tear-sodden eyelashes. She was pouting, jutting out her bottom lip sadly. "Ma and Pa are getting ready for work… I was lonely, so I wanted to come play." She ducked her head again, lacing her fingers together timorously, "I didn't want to upset you Bucky-bear… I just wanted you to play with me."

Bucky's face softened. "O'course I can." He promised her, lifting her off of his lap and settling her down next to him. The sound of crinkling paper drew both of their attention back to the drawing and before Bucky could stop her, Becca had pulled the piece of paper out from underneath her thigh.

Rebecca's eyes danced across the picture like fairies in the wind, a blush tinting her cheeks a rosy red. "She looks like a princess." Rebecca whispered reverently.

Bucky considered the pencil drawing for a moment. His steel-blue eyes traced the lines Steve had used to create her face. She looked so much like Steve that it almost hurt. She did look beautiful, especially with her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders like waves made of golden silk. "She does look awful pretty, don't she Becca?" Bucky heard himself say.

"Sure does." Becca chimed, running a thin little finger over the drawn hair as though she wished she could feel how soft it was. Bucky on the other hand, knew how soft it was. He remembered tangling his fingers in Steve's hair the first night they met. The thought made Bucky's stomach twist and he pushed the image out of his mind as quickly as he could.

"Do you know her?" Becca asked, tearing her eyes away from Steve's art to peer up at her brother curiously. Bucky considered lying to her and telling her that he had no idea who that person was, but he couldn't quite get himself to lie to his little sister. He nodded, biting down on the smile that tried to spread across his face.

"What's she like?"

Again, Bucky's stomach twisted into a painful knot. "Do you know how in all your fairy tales the princess always needs a knight to save her?" He asked, losing the fight against his smile when Becca nodded fervently, "Well, she's the kind of princess who doesn't need a prince. She'll fight the dragon all by herself and win." The way Becca's eyes lit up urged Bucky to go on and before he'd taken a moment to consider his next words, they were already tumbling out of his mouth, "She's real' tough; has all sorts of stuff going against her but she doesn't let that get her down. And then she's still helping people out wherever she can. When she sees something that ain't right, she tries to fix things."

Becca's entire face was practically glowing by the time Bucky was done talking. Bucky's own feelings of anger and sadness were a strong contrast to her childlike wonder and admiration. Bucky had become unimportant. Her attention was fixed on the woman depicted in Steve's artwork. "So, she really _is _a princess! You're _so_ lucky to know her!" Becca breathed.

Her words were like a slap to the face or a punch to the gut- probably both, simultaneously. He felt winded and his breath stuttered before his lungs managed to recover. "Yeah." Bucky replied hoarsely, "I'm real' lucky."

"Is she going to come over sometime to play?" Becca enquired hopefully, finally looking back at Bucky, if only to gauge his reaction. Bucky felt the pressure of her gaze as though it was hot coals on his skin. He shifted uncomfortably, looking down at Steve in female form while he tried, in vain, to think of something to say that wasn't a complete lie but not the complete truth either. "Beccs… her and I… we don't see each other that much anymore."

"But why?" Becca yelled, tossing the picture aside to turn to face her brother completely now, hands coming to rest against his chest.

Bucky's composure was dwindling at an alarming rate and for reasons Bucky didn't understand. He wasn't close to Steve. It wasn't as though they'd become the best of friends over the past couple of weeks…

If it wasn't guilt, then what was it?

His mind snapped back to the evening at the diner so quickly that Bucky felt like he was going to have mental whiplash. He was forced to recall how comfortable he had been sitting across the table from Steve, watching the way his facial expression had shifted with every bite he'd taken. He remembered the way Steve had tried not to smile at some of Sam's ridiculous jokes. Then his mind skipped to them sitting on his bed and then, again, it jumped to a completely different night entirely, one where they weren't sitting but lying and Bucky was-.

Bucky winced, lifting both ands to rub them over his face in hopes of clearing his mind. When his hands left his face, he was confronted with Becca's unrelentingly questioning gaze. She wasn't about to let up. "Becca it's really complicated." Bucky muttered.

"Then explain it to me! When Ma says things are too complicated, she tries to explain them to me, so I can understand them! I'm not grown-up like you! Sometimes I don't understand things…"

"She was…" Bucky hesitated, searching for the right words, "Her and I had a fight."

Rebecca retreated, letting go of her brother and sitting back on her heels. She was still facing him though, her face overcome with concern. "What did you two fight about?"

"She thought that I don't care about her. When she told me, I got angry because we've been spending a lot of time together and I thought I was showing her that I do care."

"She must be really sad then." Becca muttered, picking up the picture again to cradle it in her arms as if by doing so, she could somehow comfort Steve.

Bucky frowned. "What do you mean, Beccs?"

"Well, there was this girl at my school…. when we wanted to be her friend, she thought that we were just pretending because… well teacher said that in the past, people haven't been very nice to her, so it was difficult for her to believe that anyone would want to be her friend. That's why… I think she must have been really sad and lonely… if she thought that no one wanted to be her friend."

Realization drenched into Bucky's mind like ice water soaking through his skin and chilling him right to the bone. His eyes began burning and his throat became bone dry. "I didn't realise…" Bucky mumbled, more to himself than to his sister. Her soft hand found his, lying atop his split knuckles gently. The contrast between her untainted skin and his scarred and calloused hand was extreme- a jarring reminder of their large age gap.

"Are you her prince?"

"Her-." Bucky pulled his hand away reflexively, shifting with the need to escape the situation. The knot that had steadily been growing in his stomach was reaching a whole new size, making him feel nauseous. Where he had expected a blush, his face was icy cold, the blood having drained from his cheeks completely. "I can't be her prince, Becca."

Becca crossed her arms across her chest defiantly, glowering up at Bucky. Evidently, Bucky's kid sister had taken Steve's side in this conversation. "Why not?" She demanded, kicking him with her tiny foot for emphasis.

How on earth was Bucky supposed to explain this to Rebecca? She hardly understood anything beyond the fact that the princess and the prince would get married at the end of fairy tales. How was Bucky supposed to tell her that fairy tales didn't exist?

"She… she's cursed." Bucky blurted out, cringing when the confused look on her face only deepened at the additional information. Of course, a curse wasn't a big deal in fairy tale land- true love's kiss would solve that problem each and every time. Rebecca was visibly annoyed by the fact that he didn't go on to give her a better reason for his apparent inability to be the princesses prince. After a short pause, Rebecca went on to word her objections, sounding far too grown up for Bucky's liking while she did so, "It doesn't matter if she's cursed or not. If you care about her, you have to stay with her. If Snow White's prince had left her, she never would have woken up from her sleep. If you leave her now, she's going to believe that no one cares about her! If you love her then it shouldn't matter that she's cursed or that there's a big bad dragon protecting her! All that matters, is that you love her!"

Something snapped.  
Bucky was on his feet, stumbling towards the door before he even became completely aware of the chaos in his mind and what his body was doing as a result.

"Where are you going?" Rebecca's words registered- barely, but they did.

Bucky slowed down enough to look at his sister over his shoulder, forcing a smile. "I forgot something in the bathroom. Go… go see Ma alright? I'll be… I'll be done just now." He waved his hand in an attempt at a dismissive gesture before covering the rest of the distance to the bathroom numbly.

As soon as the bathroom door was closed behind him, he locked it. Blindly, he sprawled over to the sink, resting both of his hands on the edges to hold himself upright, desperate for an anchor. He felt like he was being washed away in a monsoon of emotion and realisation. He blinked down at the immaculately clean porcelain, shocked to find that he was close to tears. His hands tightened around the edges of the sink beseechingly, begging the inanimate object to ground him and exile all the horrible confusion and the painful thoughts he was having. Then he looked up at his own reflection. He looked distraught. The paleness in his face was gone, replaced by a deep blush running from the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbones and to his ears. His eyes were shimmering and trembling.

Was he having a panic attack? Was he breaking down? But why? Because of… because of _Steve_?!

A blistering flash of anger raced through Bucky and his balled fist found the mirror, smashing into it so hard that it shattered, disbursing his reflection and sending broken shards clattering to the floor and into the sink loudly.

"FUCK!" Bucky screamed, recoiling from the empty mirror frame. Blood was running down his hand, along his fingers before dripping off of his fingertips and landing on the tiled floor.

"James?!" His mother's voice was right outside the bathroom door, frantic and loud, "James! What happened? Is everything alright?"

"No!" Bucky yelled back frenziedly, trying to wipe the blood from his hand, succeeding only in spreading the blood all over both of his trembling hands, "Nothing's fine Ma! I'm fucking losing my mind!"

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There you have it! Feel free to leave a review to let me know what you guys think of the fanfiction so far!  
Thanks for stopping by!


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